NONFICTION - Honorable Mention

Is This Spot Taken?
Paula Kotowski
Rehoboth Beach, Delaware

I enjoy going to the beach by myself sometimes. Geometrically speaking, my beach chair, my beach bag, and myself occupy about nine square feet of space. I’ve never calculated what percentage of Rehoboth’s several miles of shoreline that covers. Quite frankly, that’s way too much math for me. I’m pretty sure it’s a very, very small number, though. Just a little bit of real estate that’s all mine for a few hours.

Don’t get me wrong; I don’t begrudge anyone his own nine square feet. I just would rather it not overlap mine. If the vinegar from my Thrashers’ fries is dripping on their blanket, it’s too close. Imagine a heat-seeking missile, undeterred as it zooms in on its unsuspecting target. Here they come, my fellow beachgoers, aiming for that little plot of breathing room next to me. No matter how much oceanfront landscape is available, they hone in, blissfully unaware of personal space guidelines. I’ve considered the possibility that overexposure to UVB rays has rendered me invisible to the naked eye, but these pale-faced interlopers do see me. They smile and nod politely in my direction. Once in a while, someone will ask, “Is this spot taken?” Since the chosen spot technically is not taken, I’ve learned to smile, nod politely in their direction, and say nothing.

There are two things that people sitting very near to me on the beach should know. First, I can hear you. Sound carries amazingly well in the clear air of a sunny summer day. I hate to admit it, but if you’re talking, I’m listening. As entertaining as eavesdropping can be, it is frustrating to be unable to join the conversation. So to the woman in the enormous black straw hat, I’m sorry to hear about your husband’s affair; his secretary sounds like a real bimbo, and I definitely think you should have the breast implants.

To the gentleman closing the real estate deal on his cell phone, congratulations. I think the property was a steal at $1.5 million. I’m sure that adjustable-rate mortgage you nailed down will work just fine for you.

To the two little tow-headed boys who couldn’t get Mom’s or Dad’s attention, I heard you. I think your sand castle was awesome; that wave you rode on your boogie board was huge; and, yes, you should put on more sunscreen.

To the young women under the pink-fringed beach umbrella, your mothers would indeed have a fit if they knew what you two have been up to. By the way, not being able to remember what happened last night is not the measure of a good time, and, as a former English teacher, I can assure you that there is no rule of grammar that calls for every third word in a sentence to be “like.”

To the elderly couple, bless you for all of those years of marriage, all those highly successful children and high-achieving grandchildren. I’m sure everyone within a quarter-mile radius enjoyed hearing about them. Just a thought, though. You might want to consider his-and-her hearing aids.

Lastly, to the cute little girl in the Dora the Explorer bathing suit, I really like the airplanes with the “flying words,” too.

The second thing that my seaside neighbors should know is that I find people endlessly fascinating. Maybe it’s the writer in me. Give me an unsuspecting cast of characters, and I will weave a life story for them. Since I’ve already admitted to eavesdropping, I now must confess that, for those times when my subjects are out of earshot, I just make up stories about them. I stash a notebook and pen in my beach bag and surreptitiously make notes about the lives I imagine them having.

Take, for instance, Miriam and Helen. Of course, I have no idea what their names really were, but I decided that they looked like a Miriam and a Helen. They spent a good part of the day walking along the water’s edge and returning periodically to their blanket and chairs to deposit shells and stones that they had collected.

These ladies were in their late sixties, maybe early seventies. Both gray-haired, Miriam was the taller, thinner of the two. She wore a navy blue one-piece bathing suit modestly topped with a knee-length cover-up. Helen, dressed in denim Bermuda shorts and a Las Vegas T-shirt, was solidly built, like she perhaps had been an athlete in her younger days. I guessed that the ladies were retired schoolteachers. Miriam, I surmised, taught American history, and Helen instructed physical education. Neither had ever married. Miriam had no family to speak of, while Helen had a slew of nieces and nephews on whom she doted. In fact, the shells they had been collecting were for her niece, Wendy, who made jewelry with them.

Miriam and Helen had been close friends for years, but the social times and their positions in education had never allowed them to fully acknowledge their feelings for each other. Now, in their later years, they could openly spend the rest of their lives together in a small apartment near the beach they both loved.

Or, maybe Miriam and Helen were sisters-in-law. They had been married to brothers, but each had secretly been in love with the other brother for nearly fifty years. Now they were both widows, filling their empty days collecting shells and avoiding conversation. But that would be another story. Since I’m never burdened with facts, the possible fictions are endless.

There were Theodore and Greta. Theodore was an African-American man, tall and slim, with a distinguished graying at the temples framing a wise and weathered face. Greta was his German-born wife, nearly as tall as her husband and strikingly attractive with a complexion the color of sweet cream. Theodore and Greta had met and married when he was stationed with the United States Army in Germany. Greta had been poorly prepared for the prejudices that she encountered when they moved back to this country. As they sat with their heads together, talking too softly for even my highly trained ears, I imagined them reminiscing about the struggles they had endured just to be together. Of course, they could just as easily have been discussing what to have for dinner that night.

There were Sandy and her young daughter, Amy. Sandy was a single mom, probably in her thirties. Her toenails were painted green; her long, fake fingernails were bright orange, and both looked like they just might glow in the dark. Her navel was pierced and adorned with a silver chain. Her raffia-like hair was white, not a victim of age but of the bottle of Sun-up by Sandy’s side. She wore a red bikini, but seemed uncomfortable in it and tugged and pulled at it constantly. She hadn’t planned on being a widow at 36. She hadn’t planned on waiting tables to support herself and Amy. She hadn’t planned on having to compete with younger, prettier, smarter women for the jobs and the men. Then again, she was doing okay. She’d saved enough for a week at the beach with her daughter. She’d met a really nice man named Jeff at the hotel pool the day before; and, oh yeah, that lottery ticket she bought that morning was going to prove to be a winner.

I have no idea whether or not any of my musings even come close to the truth. The fact is, it doesn’t matter. What I’ve discovered is that I like these people who migrate to our beaches each summer with their voices to be heard and their stories to be imagined. Oh, I’d still prefer to keep them at a bit more than arm’s length, but I’ve learned to make the most of it.

So now when someone asks, “Is this spot taken?” I smile, nod in their direction, say, “No, it’s all yours,” and happily reach for my pen and paper.

Back to the Contest page




NONFICTION - Honorable Mention Is This Spot Taken? Paula Kotowski Rehoboth Beach, Delaware I enjoy going to the beach by myself sometimes. Geometrically speaking, my beach chair, my beach bag, and myself occupy about nine square feet of space. I’ve never calculated what percentage of Rehoboth’s several miles of shoreline that covers. Quite frankly, that’s way too much math for me. I’m pretty sure it’s a very, very small number, though. Just a little bit of real estate that’s all mine for a few hours. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t begrudge anyone his own nine square feet. I just would rather it not overlap mine. If the vinegar from my Thrashers’ fries is dripping on their blanket, it’s too close. Imagine a heat-seeking missile, undeterred as it zooms in on its unsuspecting target. Here they come, my fellow beachgoers, aiming for that little plot of breathing room next to me. No matter how much oceanfront landscape is available, they hone in, blissfully unaware of personal space guidelines. I’ve considered the possibility that overexposure to UVB rays has rendered me invisible to the naked eye, but these pale-faced interlopers do see me. They smile and nod politely in my direction. Once in a while, someone will ask, “Is this spot taken?” Since the chosen spot technically is not taken, I’ve learned to smile, nod politely in their direction, and say nothing. There are two things that people sitting very near to me on the beach should know. First, I can hear you. Sound carries amazingly well in the clear air of a sunny summer day. I hate to admit it, but if you’re talking, I’m listening. As entertaining as eavesdropping can be, it is frustrating to be unable to join the conversation. So to the woman in the enormous black straw hat, I’m sorry to hear about your husband’s affair; his secretary sounds like a real bimbo, and I definitely think you should have the breast implants. To the gentleman closing the real estate deal on his cell phone, congratulations. I think the property was a steal at $1.5 million. I’m sure that adjustable-rate mortgage you nailed down will work just fine for you. To the two little tow-headed boys who couldn’t get Mom’s or Dad’s attention, I heard you. I think your sand castle was awesome; that wave you rode on your boogie board was huge; and, yes, you should put on more sunscreen. To the young women under the pink-fringed beach umbrella, your mothers would indeed have a fit if they knew what you two have been up to. By the way, not being able to remember what happened last night is not the measure of a good time, and, as a former English teacher, I can assure you that there is no rule of grammar that calls for every third word in a sentence to be “like.” To the elderly couple, bless you for all of those years of marriage, all those highly successful children and high-achieving grandchildren. I’m sure everyone within a quarter-mile radius enjoyed hearing about them. Just a thought, though. You might want to consider his-and-her hearing aids. Lastly, to the cute little girl in the Dora the Explorer bathing suit, I really like the airplanes with the “flying words,” too. The second thing that my seaside neighbors should know is that I find people endlessly fascinating. Maybe it’s the writer in me. Give me an unsuspecting cast of characters, and I will weave a life story for them. Since I’ve already admitted to eavesdropping, I now must confess that, for those times when my subjects are out of earshot, I just make up stories about them. I stash a notebook and pen in my beach bag and surreptitiously make notes about the lives I imagine them having. Take, for instance, Miriam and Helen. Of course, I have no idea what their names really were, but I decided that they looked like a Miriam and a Helen. They spent a good part of the day walking along the water’s edge and returning periodically to their blanket and chairs to deposit shells and stones that they had collected. These ladies were in their late sixties, maybe early seventies. Both gray-haired, Miriam was the taller, thinner of the two. She wore a navy blue one-piece bathing suit modestly topped with a knee-length cover-up. Helen, dressed in denim Bermuda shorts and a Las Vegas T-shirt, was solidly built, like she perhaps had been an athlete in her younger days. I guessed that the ladies were retired schoolteachers. Miriam, I surmised, taught American history, and Helen instructed physical education. Neither had ever married. Miriam had no family to speak of, while Helen had a slew of nieces and nephews on whom she doted. In fact, the shells they had been collecting were for her niece, Wendy, who made jewelry with them. Miriam and Helen had been close friends for years, but the social times and their positions in education had never allowed them to fully acknowledge their feelings for each other. Now, in their later years, they could openly spend the rest of their lives together in a small apartment near the beach they both loved. Or, maybe Miriam and Helen were sisters-in-law. They had been married to brothers, but each had secretly been in love with the other brother for nearly fifty years. Now they were both widows, filling their empty days collecting shells and avoiding conversation. But that would be another story. Since I’m never burdened with facts, the possible fictions are endless. There were Theodore and Greta. Theodore was an African-American man, tall and slim, with a distinguished graying at the temples framing a wise and weathered face. Greta was his German-born wife, nearly as tall as her husband and strikingly attractive with a complexion the color of sweet cream. Theodore and Greta had met and married when he was stationed with the United States Army in Germany. Greta had been poorly prepared for the prejudices that she encountered when they moved back to this country. As they sat with their heads together, talking too softly for even my highly trained ears, I imagined them reminiscing about the struggles they had endured just to be together. Of course, they could just as easily have been discussing what to have for dinner that night. There were Sandy and her young daughter, Amy. Sandy was a single mom, probably in her thirties. Her toenails were painted green; her long, fake fingernails were bright orange, and both looked like they just might glow in the dark. Her navel was pierced and adorned with a silver chain. Her raffia-like hair was white, not a victim of age but of the bottle of Sun-up by Sandy’s side. She wore a red bikini, but seemed uncomfortable in it and tugged and pulled at it constantly. She hadn’t planned on being a widow at 36. She hadn’t planned on waiting tables to support herself and Amy. She hadn’t planned on having to compete with younger, prettier, smarter women for the jobs and the men. Then again, she was doing okay. She’d saved enough for a week at the beach with her daughter. She’d met a really nice man named Jeff at the hotel pool the day before; and, oh yeah, that lottery ticket she bought that morning was going to prove to be a winner. I have no idea whether or not any of my musings even come close to the truth. The fact is, it doesn’t matter. What I’ve discovered is that I like these people who migrate to our beaches each summer with their voices to be heard and their stories to be imagined. Oh, I’d still prefer to keep them at a bit more than arm’s length, but I’ve learned to make the most of it. So now when someone asks, “Is this spot taken?” I smile, nod in their direction, say, “No, it’s all yours,” and happily reach for my pen and paper. Back to the Contest page
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