The Old Man And The Beach Umbrella

Donna Fletcher ~1~

The Old Man And The Beach Umbrella by Donna Fletcher

The throngs of sun worshipers marched in sporadic succession along the empty beach. The early morning sun found the faithful followers staking their claims to the most sought after locations. Arms were weighted down with beach apparatus: sand chairs, beach balls, blankets, pails and shovels, thirst-quenching drinks and numerous multicolored beach umbrellas. Young children clung to their mothers’ tote bags, swinging their small, round inner tubes and squealing with delight at the sight of the rolling waves running up the sand to tickle their tiny bare toes. Muscle-bound men with cocoa-colored skin stalked the water’s edge showing off bodies that took hours at a gym to maintain. Young girls smiled at them while tossing their golden manes back and swinging their slim hips in invitation. Mothers and fathers of various ages watched the mating game with fond memories as the seaside resort came to life for the day.

Donna Fletcher ~2~ “It’s a hot one today, folks,” announced the obnoxious voice on the blaring radio. “Soaring, soaring into the 90s,” it continued before drifting off to mingle with the multitude of sun worshipers. Joe shook his head while mumbling to his wife, Emma. “Stupid machine’s going to deafen everyone in five feet of it.” “Perhaps,” Emma nodded. The plastic, flip-flops she wore digging up the hot sand and propelling the tiny particles like miniature missiles at her husband’s bare legs. Joe continued, shaking his head. “That woman never listens always wearing those dumb sandals. After thirty-five years of marriage you’d think she’d take my advice, but no, she wears the stupid things anyway.” Emma stopped abruptly, almost causing Joe to bump into her. “Did you say something, Joe?” “Nah didn’t say anything,” he grumbled, running his hand across the bald spot that first appeared thirty years ago and had grown sparser year after year. Emma lifted the brim of her wide straw hat and pulled her sunglasses down to rest on the tip of her nose. She surveyed the area with squinting eyes. “This is perfect, Joe.” “Are you sure?” he asked. “Last time you made me move it twice.” She pushed her red-rimmed glasses back and nodded her head. “Positive.”

Donna Fletcher ~3~ Joe didn’t argue. He was too hot, and all he wanted was to get the umbrella up so he could sit and enjoy the beach. They had been coming here every summer, first as a young married couple, then as parents, toting along their three children, until finally they were once again alone. The years had been good, though: he couldn’t complain. Emma and he had aged well. Some extra weight here and there, white hair for her, none for him, but that all was expected with the passage of time. After arranging the two sand chairs with a clear view of the ocean, Emma began to coat her pale skin with suntan lotion. “Best hurry, Joe, you know how your head always burns.” Joe muttered to himself and patted his bald spot. “Earned that I did.” “Yes, dear,” Emma answered, continuing to smear the thick cream over her arms. Joe picked up the red and white striped beach umbrella and jammed the point into the sand, moving it back and forth a few times to make certain it was planted firmly. His lean fingers searched beneath the striped canvas for the release button and pressed hard against the metal knob. Nothing happened. He shook it gently and tried again. Nothing. Not one to back down in the face of adversity, he unbuttoned his beach jacket, tossed it on the chair and tried again. He jiggled, shook, pushed, pried and choked the rigid pole, but the button refused to budge.

Donna Fletcher ~4~ Tiny beads of perspiration appeared across his forehead, growing in size until finally trickling down into his full, gray eyebrows before slipping even further to catch hold of an eyelash or two. He impatiently wiped them away with the back of his hand and glanced at Emma. She stood with her arms crossed, waiting. “I’ll get it. I’ll get it,” he grumbled. He rubbed his sweating hands along his brightly colored swim trunks and attacked the umbrella with vicious determination. He tilted it back and forth, turned it around, jabbed, poked and strangled the stubborn object. Still nothing. Cheers of encouragement filled the air, and Joe was surprised to see he had attracted a crowd. Throngs of fellow beach worshipers had formed a semi-circle around him. Faces in varying degrees of suntan, shape and size smiled at him while shouting their support. “Come on, Pop, you can do it,” cried one young man. “Don’t give up,” echoed another. Joe gave them a salute and a smile before grabbing the pole. This was a battle he had no intentions of losing. This was a test for all men who had passed their prime and needed to show the young bucks that there was still life left in their aging bodies. And Joe was the Chosen One. He glanced once again at Emma. In his youth he had effortlessly lifted her into his strong arms and run carelessly into the tumbling waves. Now he had the opportunity to show her he still had a little left in him. Then he’d finally hear a word of praise, not that she never gave it, but…

Donna Fletcher ~5~ He pressed urgently against the metal button, his finger turning numb from the tense exertion. He jiggled it back and forth while continuing the pressure. His unused muscles screamed in protest over the sudden activity. He recalled the strength of his youth and wished for a small ounce of its return. “Come on, Pop,” repeated the young voice once again. “Smart alec kid,” Joe grumbled and attacked the pole. He choked, pushed, tugged and silently threatened the inanimate object. It still refused to open. Joe glanced at his wife. Her glasses sat perched on the tip of her nose while she concentrated on his dilemma. He could almost hear her soft voice telling him not to worry about his failure to open the umbrella. The young, muscle-bound man who had shouted encouragement took a step forward. Joe held his hand up, refusing assistance. This was a matter of honor. It was him or the umbrella, and he was damned if he was going to allow a skinny stick with wire spokes to conquer him. He rubbed his hands up and down on his swim trunks, erasing all perspiration. This was it. Now or Never. His hands reached upward in a slow, tenacious motion and lunged at the stubborn object. The metal knob snapped in, and with a humming swoosh the spokes sprang up and out, causing Joe to duck quickly as the red and white canvas formed its mushroom, sheltering shape.

Donna Fletcher ~6~ Shouts of praise for “the old man’s strength” filled the humid air. “Great job, Pop,” offered one. “Couldn’t have done it better,” added another. Joe smiled his appreciation, clasping hands with all who filed past him. When the last well-wisher wandered off, Joe turned to find Emma seated in the sand chair, glasses back in place and a magazine resting in her lap. He tilted his head to the side and sauntered toward her with a youthful cockiness. He plopped down into the chair beside her, stretching his legs out and crossing his aching arms over his chest. Now came the moment he had been waiting for, the sound of his wife’s voice singing his praises. “Well, Emma,” he said, impatient to hear her words. Emma leaned forward, pulling her glasses down along her nose, looked questioningly from side to side and whispered, “How are you going to get it closed?”