Warnings

Warnings
Noel Laflin
July 4, 2014

September 1968:

“The original hotel first opened in the late 1800’s,” the man sporting the 1940’s Hawaiian shirt said to the two boys walking to either side of him.  He pointed to the imposing structure with the plate glass windows overlooking this stretch of sand and the Pacific Ocean.  Catalina Island shimmered to the northwest just twenty-six miles across the sea.

The three beachcombers had been lollygagging for a bit now with the man pointing out tidbits of Laguna’s past all along the way.  He loved California history and trivia in general – local lore, in particular.  He made any trip interesting – even this simple stroll down the beach.  What he knew about the Hotel Laguna was no exception. He continued to elaborate as they slowly walked its length and onto Main Beach near the old boardwalk.

“It was condemned in the 1920’s and razed.  It was rebuilt of course,” he acknowledged with a wave of his hand.

“Why was the hotel razed in the first place?” the fifteen-year-old asked, stopping to look at the grand old structure from a new angle.

The lad raising the question was spending a few precious days before the start of high school with these good friends at their rented beach bungalow several blocks south of where they now walked.  The teenager was enchanted by the father’s knowledge regarding - well, just about everything.  He was delighted to be in his company.  And this was one of the finest days of the summer.  He was trying to soak up all of the sun, sea and fun facts being tossed about so casually before his sophomore year officially got in the way.  So, he wanted to know what took down the original structure naturally.  He knew the man in the cool Hawaiian shirt would have the answer.

“It just got rundown,” the father replied.  “Became pretty much of a firetrap, according to what I’ve read,” he continued.  “But, what they built in its place still stands as we see it now.  It was a real Mecca for the Hollywood elite back in the 30’s.  Bogart, Bergman, Bacall and anyone who was anyone hung out here in its heyday.”

“Who’s Bogart, dad,” his nine-year-old son asked, dodging an errant Frisbee that nearly took off his head.

“He was a movie star from a by-gone era,” his father replied.  “Just like the hotel,” he added with a just a hint of melancholy in his voice.

“I’ve seen Casablanca,” the other boy chimed in.  He might have only been fifteen, but he was up on his old movies and only too happy to reenact the part of a fast-talking bar owner named Rick.

“Louie, I think this is going to be the start of a beautiful friendship,” he added, pretending to stroll across a fog-enshrouded Moroccan airstrip, circa 1941.

Having got caught up in the moment the adolescent  inadvertently stepped on a sunbather.  The blond young man in the tight swimwear lying on his towel smiled up at the klutzy teen now doing a quick two-step – trying to avert his feet from doing more injury.  The sunbather, who looked to be all of eighteen, had a suave and worldly air about him despite his youth.  Several other scantily clad men, spread out across the sand on their own brightly colored towels, howled with delight.

The boy, reddening in the face, stammered out a barely audible apology.  The tanned young man on the towel removed his sunglasses and gave him the once over.  He had the most amazing green eyes.

“It’s alright, honey,” he replied, staring at the boy directly.  “You can trip over me anytime you like.  Just come back when you’re older.”  And with that he put the shades on and lay back down.

The other sunbathers snickered once again.  Catcalls were being bandied about as well.

“Well, I guess you do know your Bogart,” the man in the Hawaiian shirt said absently.  “But you had better watch your step, especially along this stretch of the beach.”

“I meant to warn you about people like this,” he said in afterthought.

And with that, he turned the two boys around and headed them back up the beach.

“Dad?” his son asked him.  “Warn him about what?”  He looked confused.

“I’ll tell you later.  Let’s had back, shall we?  Your mother most likely has lunch waiting for us.”

He marched the two lads northward.

The wannabe Bogart gave a glance or two over his shoulder.  The handsome young man on the towel had turned his head to the side, watching the trio slip away.  He raised his hand in farewell.

Bogy waved back, when the other two were not looking.
 

July 4th, 1977

The shy young man tried to look nonchalant and just blend in with the crowd.

The place was packed with men of all ages and the floorboards themselves vibrated and danced to the overly cranked up, relentless beat of disco. Folks tried to move, converse or flirt amid the music, noise, smoke and clinking of bottles and glasses. 

It was a world quite unlike any he had either envisioned or encountered. The young man was enthralled, remembering what had brought him to this strange yet excitingly exotic and welcoming new home just an hour ago.

He had not been ready to drive back to a lonely apartment that night. 

“It’s Independence Day after all – and maybe,” he reasoned, to the empty seat beside him, “it’s time to do something about it.”  

He took the turnoff for PCH. 

The young man was twenty-four, not bad looking - or so he'd been told on one occasion or another - and fairly successful in his job. But there was a major void in his life. He just did not know who he was any longer.
  

Perhaps it was time to ignore an old warning directed his way some nine years ago on a long-lost hot summer day.  He recalled a man with amazing green eyes. He guessed it was time to finally visit Laguna again. 

“Not all warnings are justified,” he said aloud as he parked his car.   

“But I could lose my job over this venture,” he fretted as he ran across busy PCH, hoping not to be recognized by any off-chance acquaintance who happened to be passing by. 

"Fuck it!" he yelled, reaching the safety of the sidewalk and the entrance to the bar he'd known of for many years, but had never had the balls to enter until this moment.

"I'll be the judge of old warnings," he reassured himself as he entered a new and formerly forbidden world. He wanted to see what all the fuss was about. 

Slipping back into the present the boy, who had so many questions as to what was expected of him, wondered what his next step was to be. 

As if turned out, his errant foot tripped over that of another as he lurched forward unexpectedly into the catching arms of the shirtless, injured stranger. 

The tanned, blond man steadying him smiled as he held him upright. 

He was a few years his senior but looked hauntingly familiar. 

He had the most amazing green eyes. 

"Oh, honey, when I told you that you could trip over me any time, I had no idea you’d wait so long!"

"You know," the klutzy young man stammered, taking the stranger's extended hand and shaking it in genuine thanks - "I was once warned about people like you."

"Oh, I do recall indeed," the handsome man replied with a suave and worldly wave of the hand. "But of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, you walked into mine - despite the warning.”

Now it was time for the younger man to smile in recognition of a summer day long ago on a beach not far away. 

He realized that he was being asked a question. 

"What’s my name?” he repeated, as if caught napping. 

"Why don't you just call me Rick."

“I guess that makes me Louie then,” the man with the knowing eyes laughed, raising his glass. 

"But let me steal one of your lines just for the moment," he added.

"Here's looking at you kid."