The man approaches me with a smile, as he does often when I’m near the Imperial Beach pier. He is a short portly man, with Einstein hair and gaps where teeth once resided. He is never stumbling drunk, but the smell of alcohol wafts off of him and mixes with the smell of the sea. His deep wrinkles and red nose hint at a difficult life.
Although he has introduced himself to me more than a dozen times, I’m embarrassed to admit that I cannot remember his name. This apparently isn’t a problem, since he begins each conversation as if we’ve never met.
“Nice day, isn’t it?”
The first time he approached me, I nodded, mumbled a vaguely pleasant answer, and returned my gaze to my book. He continued to stand over me, until I gave up hope of peaceful solitude. I rose to my feet, brushed off the sand, and met his gaze.
“Yes, it’s a nice day.” I tried to keep irritation out of my voice, but my tone was the one I generally reserve for recalcitrant students or petulant toddlers.
He cocked his head. “What’s your name?”
I introduced myself and he extended his hand to shake mine. His hand was cold and soft in mine, but he made no effort to let go. “Are you married?”
That accelerated fast, I thought.
“Oh, I most definitely am,” I answered emphatically. I sized him up. I was pretty sure I could knock him down if I had to, or outrun him. But the beach was crowded on this sunny day, and there were plenty of people who could come to my aid if I hollered. I quickly realized he didn’t present any imminent danger.
Still holding my hand, he continued, “I was married once. Her name was Sandra. She was beautiful – half Mexican and half Irish. Dark eyes and red hair.” He paused for a moment, looking toward the sea. “She died five years ago, of breast cancer.”
There was no way I could let go of his cold hand now. “I’m sorry to hear that, sir.” He looked so lonely that I put my other hand on his jacketed arm. Who touches an old widowed alcoholic? Probably not many people.
We stood there awkwardly for a few moments in silence. Finally, I gently pulled away, wished him a good day, and walked off.
The next time I encountered him on the beach, he introduced himself again, asked my name and whether I was married. I assured him I was. “What a shame. You’re a pretty little thing.” Under other circumstances, I’d have found his comment annoying or even offensive, but I remembered his sad face as he stared out to sea remembering the beautiful lost Sandra. When he held out his hand to shake, I took it, knowing that his hand would be soft and clammy, that he would hold on too long, and that I would finally pull away, smelling of his alcohol- and grime-infused pores.
“I was married once,” he said. “She left me though, about five years ago. I lost my job, and started drinking. She got fed up; I don’t blame her. She was a real pretty woman, that Caroline. I still miss her.”
I stared at him opening and closing my mouth like a fish out of water. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I stuttered. I extricated myself from his touch as quickly as possible, bid him a good afternoon, and skittered away to wash my hands.
I run into him several times a month. Sometimes I see him from far away, tottering down the pier, and I tuck myself into a less visible spot among the rocks. Sometimes he comes upon me quietly as a cat and I look up from my book, startled, to see him standing above me, asking my name and if I am married. I listen to his tales of lost wives: of Linda, who left him for another; Deanna who was a hippie and couldn’t be tied down; Marilyn who was a drug addict and eventually overdosed.
The stories change, but the routine doesn’t: he always offers me a handshake and I always take it, even knowing that he will hold on far longer and far tighter than is appropriate. Even as I hold my breath against the fumes of alcohol that emanate from him, even as I wonder about scabies and lice, even as I scan the beach for people who could come to my rescue, I listen to him, I mumble awkward condolences for the day’s story of loss, and I don’t tug my hand away. His litany of sad untruths reminds me that he is lonely and lost, and the only thing I can give is five seconds of his hand in mine.
