Sören slept in until after one PM - despite his nap, he really needed the rest. Regardless of what time Sören got up, he usually took awhile to get out of bed, and it usually took at least an hour, often longer, for his brain to catch up with his body being awake, during which time he was grumpy and needed caffeine to help the process along.
Sören staggered out to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of iced coffee from the pitcher he and Mark had gotten ready last night, and take his morning meds. He had to pass through the living room to get to the kitchen, and this was just as Mark was bringing in his harp case, which he'd had in the car overnight.
Sören, of course, had forgotten he was just in a T-shirt and boxer-briefs. Shit. Sören looked down at his bare legs. Well, I'm not completely naked, either.
"And good afternoon to you," Mark said, carrying his harp into the living room.
"It's still morning to me," Sören mumbled, stumbling into the kitchen.
Once Sören had the iced coffee poured in a large glass, he realized he'd forgotten to bring his meds with him. Which made him feel stupid, even though he was in a strange environment and used to keeping his med minder in the kitchen at home, and he hadn't really unpacked yesterday, needing to decompress after the trip down here. So Sören had to walk back to his bedroom, passing by Mark again, who was taking his harp out of the case.
Sören had seen Mark with his harp on stage at school productions, but he'd never seen it closeup. And despite not feeling awake yet and still in that grumbly, just-got-up-leave-me-alone frame of mind, Mark's harp caught his eye enough to make him pause in his tracks.
"Holy shit, that's gorgeous," Sören said. "That harp is like... a work of art."
Mark nodded. "I had it custom made, a long time ago."
Sören came closer, aware again that he was in a T-shirt and his underwear, and Mark was fully dressed. "Can I touch it? Er, the harp."
"I normally don't let people touch the harp, but go ahead."
Sören's fingers ran over the embellished carved floral design on the crown and column for just a few seconds, not wanting to offend Mark by having his hands on it too long. Then Sören took a couple steps back to take it all in. "You must have paid a pretty penny for that."
"I paid for it with a song."
"If it was anything like what I heard last night, it was worth it."
Mark smiled and looked down, flushing just a little. He opened his mouth to speak - Sören could tell he was a little flustered by the compliment - and now Sören felt flustered too. "Er, right, I was getting my meds," Sören said, and walked off.
He took the opportunity of going back in the bedroom to grab his med minder from his backpack to change into fresh clothes, coming out in a KMFDM T-shirt and jean shorts. He slung his satchel over his hip that had his glasses case, cell phone, and wallet, as well as a small sketchpad and a set of colored pencils in case he felt inspired to sketch anything, wanting to get a move on since it was already afternoon. As he took his meds with iced coffee, Mark walked into the kitchen to have some orange juice. Sören noticed then what Mark was wearing - faded jeans and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt, and his glasses were on.
"Have a granola bar or something, it'll help you wake up."
"I was gonna get a bite somewhere while I was out. We still on for dinner?"
"If you can be back by 8 PM, yes. Do you have any preferences?" Mark raised his eyebrow. "What's your favorite food?"
"Grilled cheese."
"Grilled... cheese. Are you serious?"
"I know it's simple and not 'haute cuisine' or whatever fancy classical music people eat -"
Mark snorted at that. "Sören, please."
"But grilled cheese has been a comfort food of mine since childhood. I like Swiss on rye, though anything's fine. If you want to get fancy we can have some kind of soup on the side."
"OK."
"And that was kind of you for asking, and I shouldn't have made that remark about 'classical music people'." Sören ran a nervous hand through his curls. "I was trying to be funny but I guess it backfired -"
Mark shrugged. "I've had some of the faculty assume I'm a snob even though I thought it would be obvious the guy who plays Metallica on harp probably isn't that much of a snob, so it hit a nerve a little."
"Are you sure you and Professor Dooku aren't related somehow?" Sören raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised you guys aren't friends, he's a huge Metallica fan."
"At his age? Wow. And there I go making assumptions... his generation had Jimi Hendrix, after all... But to answer your question, it's a big campus, lots of staff, our departments don't get much chance to interact. It's a case of I've seen him around and know who he is - he's kind of unmistakable, British expat, always impeccably dressed, one of the other tallest staff members - but we've barely exchanged a few words in the years I've been teaching there."
"Jæja, you've been teaching there since before I came on?" Sören started teaching at Oregon State University in fall 2013.
Mark nodded. "2010."
"You from Oregon?"
"No. Connecticut." Mark looked away. "Yale is my alma mater."
"Ah. That's... northeast, right?"
"Right."
Sören nodded. "I brushed up on geography for citizenship requirements - I can become a citizen next year. My ex Seth offered to marry me to speed that up once same-sex marriage became legal but boy, am I glad I dodged that bullet."
"Oh... you're gay?"
"Bisexual, technically. Or as I put it sometimes, I'm not just bipolar, I'm bi-everything. But most of my partners have been male, my last relationship was with a guy." And then Sören felt the pit of his stomach rising - he didn't know anything about Mark's orientation; it was weird enough to be roommates with a colleague, someone who Sören had to be professional around during the school year and now had seen him in his underwear, Sören didn't want to make things even weirder if Mark was worried about sharing space with a man who liked men, which a lot of guys who didn't swing that way could get very strange about, as if it was a threat to them somehow. On the other hand, he really wanted to be friends with Mark, and if Mark was a homophobe of any kind, better he find this out now...
"Ah, OK." Mark casually sipped his orange juice. "Me too."
"I see." Mark's admission may have been to put Sören at ease, something he appreciated - but it was disconcerting as much as it was reassuring. Sören's face burned, his mind immediately going there wondering what Mark had done with other guys...
"Anyway, I wasn't judging you about the grilled cheese. I just didn't want you to feel like you couldn't pick something more complicated or expensive if that was what you wanted..."
"Oh. Well... if you don't want to have grilled cheese, make whatever..."
"No, it's fine. I will make some sort of soup with it, though. Or a salad."
"Either or both is lovely. And with that..." It was getting too hot in the kitchen. Sören really didn't want to think about Mark drinking something other than orange juice. This is your roommate and a co-worker. And your ex was an asshole and you're still recovering. Cut that shit out.
Mark pulled out the box of granola bars from the cupboard and thrust one at Sören. "Seriously. Have one."
"I'm not in the mood to eat right now, usually not when I first wake up -"
"Well, take it if you need it. Though you should get in the habit of eating in the 'morning'." Mark made air quotes.
Sören took the granola bar and gave him a look. "Are you my dad now?"
Mark raised an eyebrow. "Do you need one?"
Sören didn't know if Mark realized the connotations of what he was saying, as one queer man to another, but whether Mark knew it or not, Sören's face burned even hotter and he needed to get out of there now, before his thoughts went even more in a direction where they shouldn't. "I'll see you by or before 8," Sören said, and with that, he was out the door.
_
Sören spent most of the day walking along Bridgeway, the main drag of Sausalito. He admired the pastel Victorian-style houses, many of which had been converted into shops and boutiques, cafes and galleries. He took his time browsing, taking in as much of it as he could, and snapped the occasional photo with his cell phone camera.
After he'd been walking for awhile his body finally woke up enough to want food, and the granola bar he brought with him took the edge off but didn't quite cut it. A Mexican restaurant caught Sören's eye - he'd developed a real taste for it since moving to the States, though when he went for Mexican he wanted heat in his food and found some places didn't understand what "spicy" meant.
Sören's experience was that the best Mexican restaurants were family-owned hole-in-the-wall places run by actual Mexicans, and this was an upscale bistro with mostly white staff, so he already had his misgivings. But nonetheless, he was willing to try it, going for a plate of carnitas, which were very good, if a bit pricey. He would have enjoyed them more if the restaurant was not so crowded - Sören felt a bit stupid for not realizing he would be far from the only tourist in Sausalito at this time of year, and it was a popular destination. He felt a little anxiety in the crowd coupled with the awkwardness of eating alone, and when he remembered that the last time he'd gone to a Mexican restaurant it was Seth, who had berated him for making a mess, he felt an asthma attack coming on.
He decided to get off the main drag and headed to Schoonmaker Beach, closer to where he was renting. The view of the sea and smell of the salt air were just what he needed right now. Sören took his Doc Martens and socks off to feel the sand on his bare feet, and got bold enough to go in the water up to his ankles. He wasn't bold enough to strip down to his underwear and go in deeper, though he thought about his trunks back at the house and going for a dip sometime during the week. In the meantime... the feel of the waves around his ankles and the breeze in his hair relaxed him. He saw some children playing in the water with their parents some feet away and that, too, put him in a better frame of mind, though it also gave him a little ache, as not having children was one of his regrets in life and he doubted at thirty-two and single that becoming a parent was in his future.
On the opposite end of the beach Sören heard drums, which intrigued him. He turned and saw a group of five hippies - two of them his age or younger, one late teens or early twenties, two who looked to be in their sixties or seventies. It was three men and two women, all wearing tie-dye, the younger woman was wearing a skirt and the older wearing shorts, and Sören noticed right away that the old man had long grey dreadlocks and a long beard, burly and ruddy-faced. They, too, made Sören smile, watching them drum and dance along with classic rock songs playing on a portable stereo, around a small bonfire. They were roasting marshmallows.
"Hey!" shouted the hippie woman around his age, with blonde dreads, slim figure, slight tan, gap-toothed, wearing lots of seashell jewelry. "I like your shirt!"
"You like KMFDM?" Sören was pleasantly surprised.
"KMFDM sucks!"
"A true fan, then." Sören grinned, "Sucks" was an older KMFDM song and "KMFDM sucks" was commonly used in the fanbase.
The woman made the "come here" gesture and Sören stepped back into the sand and walked over, cursing to himself that he hadn't had the foresight to bring a towel and now he was going to have wet sand all over his feet when he had to put his socks and shoes back on.
When he arrived at their bonfire, the woman handed him a roasted marshmallow on a stick. "Here, you're cool, you get one."
"Takk," Sören said, and then, realizing it slipped out and the world didn't speak Icelandic, he said "thank you". The roasted marshmallow was delicious, but gooey, and some got on his shirt. "Ah, shit."
"Here." The old hippie man passed over a package of wet napkins, and Sören took one and rubbed at the marshmallow goo.
Then the older hippie woman, plump with long curly grey hair and a glittery silk bandana, dangling turquoise earrings, passed him a joint. Sören laughed and despite his asthma acting up earlier, he took a puff, knowing it would help relax him. It was only after he took a hit that his brain cautioned him that could have been laced, but they didn't look like they were on anything stronger than pot and maybe a little booze.
"You new in town?" the older woman asked.
Sören nodded. "Here for the summer."
"Where you from?"
"Oregon... by way of Iceland."
"Oh, wow. I couldn't place your accent. We're local. I'm Marguerite, this is my husband Herb, that's our son Matt -" She pointed to the youngest hippie, who had shoulder-length brown hair, tall and lanky, a bit of a sunburn. "And Matt's friend Lucas and his girlfriend Sharon." Lucas had long auburn hair in a ponytail and was pale, freckled, wearing glasses. He was also on the skinny side, and judging from his arms and legs and what Sören could see poking out of his T-shirt, hairy too. Lucas had gauge plugs in his ears like Sören did, though Lucas's lobes were stretched much more - Sören wore small gauges.
"I'm Sören. Nice to meet you."
"How are you liking Sausalito?"
"It's got a nice vibe. Though I've only been here less than a day."
"You like it here in the US?"
"I'm becoming a citizen next year. I still visit home sometimes, but this is home now too, I guess."
"Iceland's a beautiful country," Herb spoke up. "Got the aurora and all those waterfalls and volcanoes... I don't think I'd want to leave if I lived there."
"It's gorgeous," Sören said. "I had problems with my family." He didn't know why he was telling this to total strangers, but they put him at ease.
"Aw, that's rough. Well, come hang with us for awhile," Marguerite said, and passed the joint to him again.
"You don't know me," Sören said, laughing nervously. "I could be a serial killer or something."
"Nah. You've got a nice aura," Marguerite said, narrowing her eyes at him. That was when Sören noticed she was wearing a crystal point pendant and several gemstone bracelets, chips and nuggets - he recognized rose quartz, amethyst, and fluorite.
Then "White Room" by Cream came on the stereo. Lucas turned it up and began to play along on the bongos. Marguerite played a doumbek while Herb played a bodhran. Matt shook maracas while he danced, and Sharon took Sören's hands and began twirling him around. Sören felt a little weird dancing with someone he didn't know here on a public beach, but he got into it - the simple happiness of the group was infectious. At "Purple Haze" by Jimi Hendrix, Marguerite passed the doumbek to Sören and Matt took the bodhran as she danced with Herb. Sören liked drumming at least as much as he liked dancing, and liked it even more when he had another couple puffs on a joint.
Herb offered him a Dos Equis from a cooler and Sören declined. "I can't really drink much on my meds," he said. "I prefer weed, anyway. And it's better for my anxiety than what I'm on."
"Weed is the best," Herb said, puffing on the joint.
Then Sören - who was now feeling the buzz kick in - started laughing, and said, "So if you're Herb and smoking herb... is that a kind of cannibalism?"
He worried then that he'd said something extremely stupid, but Herb laughed hard enough to cough, smoke coming out of his nostrils. "My birthday's even on 4/20," Herb said.
"Aw, damn. I wish mine was."
"What sign are you?" Marguerite asked.
"Sagittarius." Sören smirked.
"That explains the traveling."
"I'm also a teacher and an artist," Sören said. "My cousin believes in all of that but I... I don't know what I believe."
"You're an old soul," Marguerite said, taking his hand, "but you've still got some learning to do." She patted him. "And some healing. It's why you came here to the Bay... you came here to find something your spirit needs to heal."
Sören was getting a little uncomfortable, but not enough to pick up and leave just yet. And the joint came back to him. Then there was "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin, which was fun to drum to, and fun to watch Sharon dancing, skirt swirling. It was kind of too bad Sharon had a boyfriend...
"You guys have been really great," Sören said, "but I don't want to be rude if you..."
"You're not imposing," Herb said. "We like making new friends. If you gotta run we understand, but maybe give us your cell number and we can get together for dinner or something, show you around the Bay Area."
"O-OK." And despite the weirdness of Marguerite's observations, Sören found he did like these people and felt all right around them. Sören didn't exactly have a lot of friends, being a shy introvert - though he had to fake extraversion in his job as an art professor, which wore him out some days - and the bullied little kid inside him started to perk up. They like me? If Sören was a dog his tail would be wagging. Sören jotted down his cell number and Herb and Marguerite gave him their cell numbers as well. After a moment Sharon did too, which Lucas seemed rather relaxed about.
"And here's a token of our friendship." Herb passed Sören a plastic baggie with a gram of weed.
Sören's eyes widened. "Oh no, I can't accept that for free..."
"Why not?"
"Because." It was a rich green color, and when Sören opened the bag to smell it his suspicions were confirmed. "That's good weed, you could make money selling it..."
"Money's not really an issue for us."
Sören guessed so, if they could afford to live in Marin County, but that wasn't the point. "Let me pay you..."
"Well, if you want to pay, I could sell you more than that."
If marijuana wasn't legal in California, Sören's hackles would be up, wondering if this was a sting operation - he was careful about who he did business with in Oregon before it was legalized there; now he grew his own, but didn't want to risk bringing it across state lines, even where it was legal - the kind of weed he grew could be smelled through a backpack or luggage. But weed was legal in California, and Sören was somehow not surprised that they would have a decent quantity on them.
"OK... if you want an eighth, it's fifty, or I could give you a quarter for eighty."
Sören raised an eyebrow. It was good weed but that was a bit steep, and Sören was making himself live on a budget since he already was spending a lot on renting the house in Sausalito; he was glad Mark wasn't shopping exclusively at Whole Foods or someplace similar and asking him to split the grocery bill. And Sören realized then that was probably how these hippies could afford to live in Marin County, if they were selling weed at these prices. He didn't want to say "no thanks", not simply because he didn't want to be rude, but he also didn't know what his odds would be of finding "the good shit" at a reasonable price, if he might find another offer with an even worse deal...
Sören thought for a moment, and then he had an idea. "So I mentioned I'm a professional artist... if you want to sell me an eighth for thirty, I'll sketch you to make up the rest."
Herb and Marguerite looked at each other. "Here? Now?" Herb asked.
"Sure, why not?"
"OK."
Sören took out his sketch pad and colored pencils, and Herb and Marguerite posed. Sören sketched as the music continued to play and the weed buzz continued to settle in, opening his mind and helping him to get in "the zone". As with most of his art, Sören tended to embellish on reality a little bit, putting something mythical in the piece, and here he made Herb look a bit like the Green Man, and Marguerite became The High Priestess from Tarot. When he was done, Marguerite actually shrieked at the sketch and got up to give Sören a tight hug.
"Here man, have a full quarter," Herb said, taking out a baggie from a backpack. "We're gonna frame that."
"It was just a sketch..." Sören took the quarter, but felt awkward again. Awkward and good at the same time - that warm glow of pride that somebody liked his work. Seth had been so insulting about it - it's any wonder you got a job teaching art, when you're such a hack - and he never took compliments for granted anymore. "If you like that, you ought to see my painting."
"Oh, we'd love to see it!" Marguerite's face lit up.
"I have a portfolio back at the house I'm renting, but I could bring it next time..."
"Yeah, about next time. There's gonna be a drum circle here on Wednesday night, for the solstice, if you want to come," Herb said. "You could leave your portfolio at your place and bring it another time we hang out."
"Er. Well I mean, I'm not Pagan or anything..." Sören ran a nervous hand through his curls.
"Don't have to be."
"I don't own a drum, either."
"There'll be drums to borrow. Wednesday night, seven o'clock. You want to bring a friend, that's fine too. We just ask no weapons, no narcotics, we're there to have fun."
"OK."
After another roasted marshmallow and a couple more songs, Sören decided he better head back. Sharon and Marguerite went in the water with him - again, Sören only went up to his ankles - and then they let him borrow a towel before he put his socks and boots back on. Sharon and Lucas offered to drive him back in their van, but Sören said he was good with walking and would see them on Wednesday, though as he walked back he lamented that he didn't take them up on their offer and sneak a few last looks at Sharon before Wednesday. She wasn't conventionally attractive but there was a glow and sweetness to her that made her beautiful to him.
Mark - who absolutely did look like a model, making Sören fluster again at his chiseled face, long glossy hair and trim body - was reading The Stand by Stephen King when Sören got in. It wasn't quite eight, but Mark said "I can start dinner now if you're hungry."
"OK," Sören said.
They had grilled cheese and a homemade tortilla soup on the deck; it was nice to eat in companionable silence, watching the ocean. After dinner Sören did the dishes, and then he finally got around to the task of unpacking his backpack and suitcase, as well as charging his phone and putting the quarter of weed in a safe place. He had some art supplies to tide him over, but he was looking forward to the UPS shipment on Tuesday, which he was going to have to stick around for. Even though the buzz was wearing off, sketching on the beach - and the enjoyment of his sketch - had put him in the mood to create a little more, and that was what he did as he heard Mark playing his guitar in the living room. Eventually Mark stopped - Sören heard him leave the house, presumably to take a walk - and the silence felt almost painful. He put on his headphones, in the mood for something more ambient, but that made him drowsy after a time as well, and at last he just sat, pushing his project off to the side. Sören started to fall asleep in the chair at the desk in his room with his headphones on, and then he was startled by Mark standing in the doorway of his room. Sören pulled his headphones down.
"Sören, go to bed. And turn the light off."
"Yes, Dad," Sören grumbled.
Mark gave him a look. "Did you take your night meds?"
"Shit, no..."
Mark raised an eyebrow. He walked off, and a moment later Mark came back with Sören's med minder and a glass of water.
"Takk." Sören took his meds, and looked up at Mark, who was watching him. "I can't believe I forgot..."
"You smoked pot today, didn't you?"
"Jæja." Sören looked down.
"I could smell it on you when you came home."
"I toke up once in awhile, yes. It's legal here and in Oregon. I can do it outside if you'd rather..."
"I didn't say I disapproved - it's not the same thing as cigarettes, that I disapprove of - but next time you toke up, try to be mindful of things like, you know, not missing a medication dose. I don't want you to have problems going into withdrawal or something."
Then Mark looked down at the seascape Sören was working on with oil pastels. The seascape had the beginnings of a mermaid. "That's pretty." Mark looked immediately sheepish about saying it, like "pretty" wasn't the right word.
"Takk, it's not done yet..." Sören rubbed his chin. "I gotta wash my hands, too. And get out of these clothes."
Mark looked away. "All right. Good night, Sören." Mark walked out of the bedroom and lingered at the door. "Sleep well."
"You too, when you get there."
Sören detected the faintest hint of sadness on Mark's face as he walked off. Sören wondered about why Mark was here by himself, why a good-looking, talented guy like him slept alone... the story of his PTSD, the melancholy in his song last night. None of that is any of my business unless he wants to share it with me.
Sören washed the oil pastel off his hands, brushed his teeth, stripped down to his boxer-briefs and hit the light.
As Sören got under the covers he thought about the happy hippie couples on the beach, the casual friendliness and warmth that seemed to come so easily to them and was difficult for someone like him, sensitive as he was. He thought about Marguerite's insight. You came here to find something your spirit needs to heal. It seemed like New Age types were always saying stuff like that - his cousin Ari was like that too - but somehow, it felt more true this time. Like this summer had been fated.
Sören thought about how he'd visited Ari in 2012 and on the winter solstice Ari spun a globe blindfolded and his finger landed on the Pacific Northwest and Oregon State University was in fact hiring, when Sören felt like a change of scenery was in order, like he was wearing out his welcome in Toronto. And then a couple months ago he'd asked Ari to put the other forty-nine states into a hat and what he pulled out would be where he went for vacation - Ari pulled California, though it had been Sören's decision to make that vacation in Sausalito after doing some research.
And here he was, coincidentally renting the same house with a co-worker who also happened to have mental health issues. He'd asked Ari to randomly pick a state out of a hat on a lark, but things were no longer feeling quite so random or coincidental.
That's just the leftover weed in your system talking, now. Go the fuck to sleep.
Sören closed his eyes, hugged Eeyore tighter, and began the deep breathing exercises Ari had taught him.