Halvard Johnson

Halvard lives and works in NYC and can be reached at halvard@earthlink.net. His website is at http://home.earthlink.net/~halvard/index.html.

Sundrift

"Oh, no," Beth sighed. "There must be something intrinsically wrong."

She was spending her morning seeking out red meat alternatives, but

was not above spending a moment or two worrying about insolvent banks,

unwanted body hair, and the urgent need for volunteers to man a local

runaway hotline.

Her piano stood by the window, unfingered now for many weeks. Years

before, she had learned to play the piano by a foolproof and instant method.

She'd never played before in her life, but yet, after an exciting two-hour

workshop, she was playing like a "natural." In just a few months, she'd

brought Beethoven's Diabelli Variations to a degree of polish that made

her the envy of all her peers.

Piano practice, though, had gradually been edged out by suntanning.

Ten sessions cost $60, a price she simply could not resist. That was $6

a session, she figured, her fear of math long a thing of the past, thanks to

Mathwerk, and its devoted staff of licensed teachers.

Thirty-three now, Beth had lived all her life in the city and had learned

how to take advantage of the abundant opportunities the city offered,

from support groups for small business owners to workshops for women

that would help them set goals, develop strategies and overcome limiting

ideas. She knew about and benefited from personalized lists of college

scholarships based on majors and career goals. When she wasn't getting

what she wanted, she knew that singles counseling for smart New

Yorkers was just a phone call away.

She knew that somewhere in the East Village, accompanied by New Age

music as old as Mount Sinai, Jewish mystical insights were being discussed

along with Chassidic storytelling in a very informal atmosphere.

She knew that hospital jobs for nurses, technicians, medics and housekeepers

were available and would pay up to $28.50 an hour. She knew that next

Saturday morning an anti-fur march would be held at Columbus Circle. She

knew that someone out there would pay cash for the internal telephone

directories of large companies.

The window through which Beth was gazing was cleaner than she remembered

it being, though she didn't recall cleaning it or having it cleaned. The anti-fur

march was an idea. She didn't like the fact that tiny animals were raised under

concentration-camp conditions and then slaughtered for their pelts. She thought

about marching, but before she could reach a decision the telephone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is this Beth Harkness?"

"Who's calling please?"

"I'm with WXYY, we're lining up interviews for a possible radio show."

"Oh?"

The voice on the phone was friendly, and, at the same time, businesslike. The

caller seemed somehow genuine. Beth relaxed.

"We're looking for bi-coastal people to share ideas on New York versus

California living."

"Bi-coastal people?"

"Yes, people who've lived or are living on both coasts."

"There must be some mistake then."

"Oh?"

"I've never lived on the Coast."

"Really? Are you sure? Our sources are usually very reliable."

"Sorry, all I know about California I've learned from Woody Allen movies,

and you know where he stands on that question."

"Yes, indeed. In fact, he's one of the people we're hoping to interview."

"Well, good luck with your project."

"Thanks, and I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time."

"No problem. Bye."

The phone clicked back into its cradle. Across the street, a huge sign said,

"Hemorrhoids? Have them treated in minutes with lasers. Call

1-800-MD-TUSCH." The cat leapt onto Beth's lap.

Fluffy was the cat's name, and fluff was her game. Great billows of furry

fluff blew around the small apartment on floor-level drafts. Beth reached

for her "Magic Wand" pet comb. Of all the pet gizmos Beth had accumulated

over the years, this was Fluffy's favorite. Its unique design made it easy to

handle, so Beth could comb the cat thoroughly while the cat stretched out on

her lap. It ran on just two AA batteries which Beth had purchased herself

(because they were not included in the price of the Magic Wand), and it ran

QUIETLY—no loud roar to scarify the cat. And it suctioned out dirt,

dandruff, loose hair, and even flea eggs and flea shit, as Fluffy purred in ecstasy.

By the time Fluffy had been fully combed, she'd fallen asleep on Beth's lap,

and Beth sighed, feeling chained to her desk.

"Oh, well, I should look at the mail," she thought.

It was yesterday's mail in fact, mail that Beth hadn't gotten around to opening or

looking at yet.

One brochure was for an abdomenizer, a saddle-like, blue plastic device that

Beth already owned, and hadn't used lately precisely because it had done its

work so well. The gadget, invented by one Dr. Dennis Colonell, D.C., enabled

Beth to do sit-ups that both strengthened and slimmed down her stomach

without doing damage to her back. It was wonderful, Beth thought, and her

tummy was tonier than it had been in years. She KNEW how ordinary sit-ups

could torture her tailbone, but the abdominizer maintained the ideal lumbo

sacral angle, thereby reducing pressure on her tailbone as she rocked her way

to a firmer tum.

She tossed this brochure in the trash.

Another pamphlet offered Beth something she hadn't seen before—an epilator.

The Soft Lady epilator was said to eliminate nicks, cuts and rough next-day

stubble from her legs without the hassle of messy wax and chemical systems.

Careful not to disturb the sleeping Fluffy, Beth ran one hand up and down along

her thighs and calves and ankles, imagining the sensuous softness that the Soft Lady

epilator might provide. She set this brochure aside, thinking she might place an

order by phone. As she did so, a small ad she had clipped from the Voice caught

her eye.

Elisa and Philip wanted "combatants & survivors of harrowing divorces" to call

them at (212) 788-6600. An Academy Award-winning producer of documentaries

apparently wanted such people for an upcoming docudrama.

Beth thought about this for a while. When the ad first caught her eye a week or so

ago, it brought back memories of Jason, memories she had tried long and hard to

suppress. But now, today, sitting at her desk, cat dozing on her lap, noontime sun in

her eyes, she though perhaps she could handle it.

Jason had been a prick. No doubt about it. He'd dragged their marriage through a

long, drawn-out court struggle, all because he'd wanted the cat. Beth couldn't

believe it. They had agreed on everything until they came to the cat. He got virtually

all the CDs, including the ones Beth's parents had given her on her birthdays. He

had claimed most of the books, but Beth wasn't much of a reader, so that didn't

matter. Furniture and kitchen stuff—he'd taken most of those too. Which left Beth

with a handful of third-world appliances, a desk (the one at which she was now

sitting), a futon (on which Fluffy took her non-lap naps), and a beat-up old record

player with a couple dozen black vinyl disks, mostly the Neville Brothers and a few

other things that were pre-Jason (or PJ, as she'd come to think of that period in her life).

The sun was moving from left to right as Beth dialed the number. It was later than she'd

thought. Maybe she'd been drowsing in the sun.

The number began to ring, as Beth thought about Jason, the prick. This would serve him

right.

Someone answered. "Sundrift," a voice said, soft, female, inviting.

"Could I speak to Elisa or Philip?" Beth said.

"Just a minute, please."

Beth waited, absently stroking cat's long, soft coat.

"Sorry, nobody here by that name."

"I'm confused," said Beth. "Aren't you looking for people who've been through the 'divorce

wars?'" She carefully used words from their ad.

"Sorry. We're a travel agency, and we specialize in low-cost air tickets to the Caribbean

and the Mexican Coast."

Suddenly, palm trees, white sand beaches and sparkling waters flashed before Beth's eyes.

She could feel the warm water curling up between her toes.

"The Caribbean?" was all she could say.

"Yes, St. Maarten, Trinidad, Jamaica, Barbadoes. And the Mexican Coast, don't forget—

Guaymas, Mazatlan, Acapulco. The Pacific. You know."

"Right," Beth said. She thought of the hot sun, of palm-frond cabañas, of gin and coconut

milk sipped through a straw right out of the coconut.

She had never experienced any of these things, of course, but, thanks to the photos in

travel brochures and in the travel section of the Sunday Times, the images were as sharp

as though she had.

"We can get you to Cancún for a week for $189, round-trip."

"No kidding," Beth said, amazed that the airfare could be so low. "And what's the

catch?"

"No catch at all, except that you have to fly on Tuesdays or Wednesdays."

"And the hotel?"

"Oh, we could set you up with something for about fifty or sixty a night. You know,

clean and simple—not fancy."

"No hidden costs?"

"No hidden costs."

Beth thought, and sighed. Again, she flashed on palm trees and bright waters,

dark-skinned young men frolicking in the surf.

"Well, may I call you back?"

She thought she'd better check out her finances before making a commitment.

"Please do," said the voice. "My name is Carlene, and we take Visa, Mastercard,

American Express, and Discover."

"Thanks."

"Bye."

Without thinking, Beth stood up, the startled Fluffy tumbling to the floor. She went

to her tiny kitchen and started opening doors and peering in cupboards. Somewhere

there was half-full bottle of tequila that someone once had brought to a party and

left. Beth wanted now, after all these months, to see what sort of taste that stuff had,

to see if it had the taste of Mexico about it.

Halvard Johnson