ice-cream parlors, everything tidy and
unpretentious. The book store, the art gallery, the brick-inlaid
sidewalks. The flower boxes. The Surf Hotel, the National, the
alley leading to Aldo’s. The Seaside Market.
Kip maneuvered into a parking space near the
market, shut off the engine and got out of the car. He had been
breathing in the briny sea air ever since he’d boarded the ferry at
Pt. Judith over an hour ago, but now, for the first time, it struck
him that he was truly on Block Island, separated from his family
not only by sixty miles of highway but by twelve miles of sea. He
felt more removed from them now than he had when he’d been three
thousand miles away in San Francisco.
He entered the Seaside Market. He wasn’t
consciously expecting to recognize any of its customers or clerks,
but he still found it jarring that every face in the store was
unknown to him.
Not that it mattered. He hadn’t come here to
socialize, to renew old acquaintances. He lifted a basket from the
stack near the cashier and wandered up and down the aisles, pulling
items at random from the crowded shelves: corn flakes, a bag of
apples, a bottle of orange juice, coffee, a loaf of bread, milk,
peanut-butter. It didn’t really matter what he tossed into the
basket; he wouldn’t taste any of it when he ate it.
At the rear of the store were shelves of
liquor, and there Kip paused. He could slap together a sandwich for
dinner and munch on corn flakes for breakfast, but a whole lot of
hours stretched between dinner and breakfast, hours he would spend
alternately trying to ward off sleep and yielding to its torments.
He needed something to get through those hours, ammunition to fight
off the demons.
He chose a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. A big one,
the largest one the store had in stock.
He paid for his purchases and carried the bags
back out to the Saab. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would go to
the bigger grocery store over on Ocean Avenue and buy some real
food. For tonight, peanut-butter, apples and bourbon would do just
fine.
He started the car, pulled out of the space,
and cruised toward High Street. The last couple of summers he’d
spent on the island he’d had his driver’s license, but driving on
the narrow island roads still felt peculiar to him, almost
sacrilegious.
He wondered if he would find his ten-speed
bicycle down in the basement of his parents’ house. If he did, it
would undoubtedly need an overhaul—a complete cleaning, a lube job,
air in the tires, the works.
Great
therapy , he thought sardonically. And
after he was done overhauling his bike, he could weave some
baskets.
Spotting an unfamiliar store up the road, he
slowed the car. He’d left the shopping area when he’d turned off
Water Street. But here, amid bungalows and cottages, a pharmacy had
sprung up.
Block Island had never had a pharmacy before.
At long last, someone had finally realized that people on the
island sometimes needed medicine.
Especially if they spent the night guzzling
bourbon.
He steered into the small lot beside the
shingled building and yanked on the parking brake. As enthusiastic
as he was about drinking himself into a stupor tonight, he had
enough foresight to want to have a hangover remedy on hand when he
woke up tomorrow.
He climbed onto the porch of the shingled
building. Inside he was confronted by the usual drug-store
merchandise: racks of paperback novels, heavily discounted beach
toys, over-the-counter medications, shampoos, toothpaste, a vast
array of videos for rent. He roamed up and down the aisles until he
located the aspirin.
Selecting a large bottle, he returned to the
front of the store and discovered there was no cashier posted near
the door. He wandered back to the rear of the store, where an
elevated counter marked the pharmacy section. Behind it was a
glassed-in area of metal shelves lined with mysterious
medical-looking boxes and vials. One end of the counter held a
computerized cash
unpretentious. The book store, the art gallery, the brick-inlaid
sidewalks. The flower boxes. The Surf Hotel, the National, the
alley leading to Aldo’s. The Seaside Market.
Kip maneuvered into a parking space near the
market, shut off the engine and got out of the car. He had been
breathing in the briny sea air ever since he’d boarded the ferry at
Pt. Judith over an hour ago, but now, for the first time, it struck
him that he was truly on Block Island, separated from his family
not only by sixty miles of highway but by twelve miles of sea. He
felt more removed from them now than he had when he’d been three
thousand miles away in San Francisco.
He entered the Seaside Market. He wasn’t
consciously expecting to recognize any of its customers or clerks,
but he still found it jarring that every face in the store was
unknown to him.
Not that it mattered. He hadn’t come here to
socialize, to renew old acquaintances. He lifted a basket from the
stack near the cashier and wandered up and down the aisles, pulling
items at random from the crowded shelves: corn flakes, a bag of
apples, a bottle of orange juice, coffee, a loaf of bread, milk,
peanut-butter. It didn’t really matter what he tossed into the
basket; he wouldn’t taste any of it when he ate it.
At the rear of the store were shelves of
liquor, and there Kip paused. He could slap together a sandwich for
dinner and munch on corn flakes for breakfast, but a whole lot of
hours stretched between dinner and breakfast, hours he would spend
alternately trying to ward off sleep and yielding to its torments.
He needed something to get through those hours, ammunition to fight
off the demons.
He chose a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. A big one,
the largest one the store had in stock.
He paid for his purchases and carried the bags
back out to the Saab. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would go to
the bigger grocery store over on Ocean Avenue and buy some real
food. For tonight, peanut-butter, apples and bourbon would do just
fine.
He started the car, pulled out of the space,
and cruised toward High Street. The last couple of summers he’d
spent on the island he’d had his driver’s license, but driving on
the narrow island roads still felt peculiar to him, almost
sacrilegious.
He wondered if he would find his ten-speed
bicycle down in the basement of his parents’ house. If he did, it
would undoubtedly need an overhaul—a complete cleaning, a lube job,
air in the tires, the works.
Great
therapy , he thought sardonically. And
after he was done overhauling his bike, he could weave some
baskets.
Spotting an unfamiliar store up the road, he
slowed the car. He’d left the shopping area when he’d turned off
Water Street. But here, amid bungalows and cottages, a pharmacy had
sprung up.
Block Island had never had a pharmacy before.
At long last, someone had finally realized that people on the
island sometimes needed medicine.
Especially if they spent the night guzzling
bourbon.
He steered into the small lot beside the
shingled building and yanked on the parking brake. As enthusiastic
as he was about drinking himself into a stupor tonight, he had
enough foresight to want to have a hangover remedy on hand when he
woke up tomorrow.
He climbed onto the porch of the shingled
building. Inside he was confronted by the usual drug-store
merchandise: racks of paperback novels, heavily discounted beach
toys, over-the-counter medications, shampoos, toothpaste, a vast
array of videos for rent. He roamed up and down the aisles until he
located the aspirin.
Selecting a large bottle, he returned to the
front of the store and discovered there was no cashier posted near
the door. He wandered back to the rear of the store, where an
elevated counter marked the pharmacy section. Behind it was a
glassed-in area of metal shelves lined with mysterious
medical-looking boxes and vials. One end of the counter held a
computerized cash
Similar Books
