He Sells Seashells
By
Tricia Owens
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 Tricia Owens
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He Sell Seashells
Andrew Patterson shoved his hands deeper into his shorts as he walked along the boardwalk of Seaside Beach. There were an intimidating number of men here and most were quick to give him the once-over. He knew he wasn't much to look at: sandy blond hair, gray eyes and a body that was fit enough for a college counselor who regularly biked to campus but nothing special. He wore his white, short-sleeved shirt unbuttoned so he could catch some sun on his chest but he wasn't excessively cut or even shaved for that matter. He was good-looking but in an average kind of way. A small net shoulder bag hung from one shoulder.
The cruise to Anteros had been a gift from his older sister, Jocelyn. She'd claimed to suspect all along that he was gay and that she believed his previous marriage had been a mistake -- though he didn't recall her protesting when he'd proposed to Maria three years ago. Jocelyn been the most excited about his coming out a month ago and had purchased this cruise right away for him.
"You're a baby when it comes to gay interactions," she'd told him, "You don't know who to hit on or how. You need to get a few successful encounters under your belt before you try dating in the real world. Better to screw up with strangers than with a man you meet back home that you really like, right? Consider this a practice playground."
Playground was certainly an apt description for where he'd found himself. He'd spent the first two days gathering his nerve by the hotel pool, pounding down fruity tropical drinks while trying not to be shocked by the bold cruising going on around him.
Gradually he'd moved beyond the hotel premises and onto the white beach where bathing suits appeared to be optional. The sheer number of available men was daunting, the miles of skin on display almost dizzying. Overwhelmed, he'd quickly holed up beneath an umbrella on the beach and flagged down the nearest cocktail server.
It had turned out to be a fortuitous move. The cocktail server was sympathetic to Andrew's plight, offering up a friendly smile, a drink and the impression that he was interested. Andrew's first foray into flirting with another man left him flustered, sweating, yet thrilled. The younger man had even made it apparent he was available for an assignation later.
But Andrew didn't want his first experience with a man to be with a cocktail server who wouldn't remember his name ten minutes later. No, he had something else in mind.
His flip-flops scuffed the sand-dusted wood of the boardwalk as he rounded the tip of the island and began walking towards the bay. Anteros Island wasn't an especially large island but he enjoyed its diversity because he'd discovered that each area attracted a different type of man. As soon as he figured out what he wanted this would be as easy as purchasing the right type of dinner.
The marinas lay ahead, though there didn't appear to be much to see there besides the boats parked in the slips. He wasn't much of a fisherman and he'd never SCUBA dived, so nothing held his interest.
He was about to turn around and head back in the direction of the gift shops and restaurants -- a sandwich and a beer sounded pretty good -- when a lone building sitting inland of the marina caught his eye. Its shingled roof was faded and bleached fishing nets hung beneath the large picture windows that wrapped around three of the four walls of the building. The structure was more glass than wood; he could see through to the other side of the bay through it. It made him think of a glass bottle thrown overboard into the ocean. Curious to see what treasures might have been tucked inside, he headed forward.
A curved wooden bridged connected the boardwalk with the front door of the building. Andrew was now close enough to read the gold painted letting on the front window left of the door: Treasures Under the Sea. Below it, smaller lettering read, Kane Whitehall, proprietor.
"A seashell store," Andrew murmured, his heart clenching. The negligible weight of his shoulder bag suddenly seemed much heavier. He paused for a moment listening, but the air was raucous with the sound of seagulls swarming the incoming boats. Fainter was the sound of jet skis out in the bay. His hands sweating, he crossed the creaking bridge and let himself into the shop.
An old iron bell clanked discordantly, more of a sound than a collection of notes. At first glance Andrew thought of Victoria's Secret where Maria had dragged him during their annual lingerie sales. Eight to ten square tables the size of ping pong tables consumed the room, each piled high not with lingerie but with assortments of shells and dried sea life. A couple of older men were gathered around a ledged table covered with varieties of dried starfish. A pair of college men was in the corner where preserved puffer fish hung from hooks in the ceiling. They laughed and playfully pushed the spiky fish at each other as if they were piñatas.
Along the only solid wall of the single room were shelves full of banjo-playing shell-frogs and anemone wearing googlie eyes. Shell-covered jewelry boxes occasionally released the few tinny notes of a tune and capiz shell wind chimes spun lazily from the ceiling above the shelves.
The place smelled of salt and a slight fish odor although it wasn't unpleasant. It made Andrew think of the docks where the cruise tender had dropped them off -- a fresh combination of sun, seaweed and open space. Nervous, he crossed the wood plank floor and began to browse.
He was amazed by the wide variety of seashells. There were clam-like ones with stripes and spots; thin, tubular ones that resembled hollow beads; some were heavy with shiny, mother-of-pearl surfaces and others were spiky or pocked like the surface of the Moon. Sand dollars came in three different sizes and sea horses came in five. Large barrels held puffy, sand dollar-like creatures called sea biscuits and shallow baskets were overflowing with jagged golden sea sponges. Andrew dragged his fingers through a tray of tiny coin-sized shells called dogwood clams and listened to them tinkle like bells. He smiled, feeling like a kid who'd discovered his first shell on the beach.