Sketchbook Flight illustration by Geoff Gouveia
The man walked into the bagel shop seeking his usual asiago with cream cheese. Inside the hustle and bustle swallowed him. It was a Saturday morning and on Saturday mornings the business always picks up. The crowd swelled inside the tiny shop, packing the man against the rack holding the bagels. They smelled fresh, the dough puffed with holes in the middle. Asiago cheese, strawberry, blueberry, Swiss- they were all here. The man glanced at each one, knowing his asiago would end up in his hand. Shoving his way to the front, the man purchased one. The cashier asked for his name and he responded Gerard.
Gerard grabbed the bagel when his name called and exited onto the street. The beach town lay unprepared on the cold morning, for the sudden glimpse of false spring weather. The temperament of that town, and all towns two seconds from the shore, are above 70 the entire time. It has weather that allows for one to wear whatever they please. The women wear their interior level of modesty while the men adhere to a strict code of high socks, boardshorts and shirt. Gerard wore his socks pulled up and down at the same time, a sign that he could not care less about the uniform. He was the age of 24 and 2 years removed from college. He walked the street like a 24 year old would, still observing the surroundings but knowing where his foot would land next. There was confidence in the step but uncertainty in where it would arrive at the end of the day.
Gerard carried a black sketchbook with him wherever he went. People asked to see the insides and Gerard obliged. He knew they wanted evidence of craft and evidence of his superiority over themselves. People looked in seeking their own inner satisfaction- if they saw something superior, they validated their own intentions of never continuing the artistic talent they once held.
The sketchbook was a mysterious time capsule in itself, a place where Gerard would let the frustrations out while seeking to conquer them. Each day, he drew with fervor and the things he drew did not make sense to everyone who asked to see the book. How could they? They didn’t understand what went on inside the brain of the man, let alone the heart. As all artists know, the pen flows with ink pumped from the heart. The heart is a fickle beast, beating irregular in unpredictable intervals. Gerard’s was no different. Inspiration made the organ beat uncontrollable; it beat three times what it should and with that excess pump so too the ink spilled on to the page. In times of desperation the heart slowed itself, beat once or twice an hour and when Gerard went to draw the pen scratched the page as it ran dry. He would curse the pen but knew the source as empty, like a grill operating on its’ reservoir of propane, depleted low. Most of the time the heart ran at its predetermined pace, a pace that allowed for inspiration and desperation to co-exist within the moment. The extremes were not met alone; they met in ebbs and flows, like the tide in which this San Clemente town worshipped.
Gerard walked, bagel in hand, to the coffee shop he would draw at for the next few hours. El Camino Real was a street unlike any other, the cars signifying its importance. Money was here and the residents liked to show it. The homeless here were darker in complexion, they had sat in the sun a tiny bit longer. Hats were commonplace and comfort was the highest commodity worn by all. The women wore jeans to look like they could have worn anything they had in their house at the moment, you just happened to catch them at that time. This was San Clemente. Gerard was here, without his wife, and he would walk alone on El Camino Real, watching the girls pass by who betrayed their craving for attention. Gerard could not avoid their gaze nor what they wore, but he had no interest in their desperation.
He arrived at the shop, after passing many try-too-hard females, and found his place in the corner. The lighting was darker than most shops. He loved this best; he could exist without the bothersome spectacle he worried himself to be. In reality, no one cared whether he drew or not. They envied his ability to partake in a hobby all the time, or so they thought. Brave elder gentleman would ask Gerard what he was drawing and the response disappointed them. It made no sense to the older generation why he drew in the coffee shop rather than down by the docks like all the other artists depicting the wonderful scenery around them. “That was art!” they would exclaim and seeing what Gerard was drawing would mention in their head how they could have done that if they had persisted in drawing all those years ago. More times than not, some mention of another family member or friend who appreciated art came at this moment. It was a small connection, a reason for conversation to ensue. This was peculiar to Gerard, but he accepted the polite attempt at finding a common bond. Gerard would extend the politeness back to the individual, asking what they did. Always some answer that confused Gerard, real estate or lawyer or broker.
After one such instance, Gerard drew a picture of a young boy playing in the sand down at the beach. The boy was crafting a huge sandcastle with a giant wave mounting, unbeknownst to the boy, behind him. This drawing was well received by the beach community, they remarked at how their own children played at the beach. The wave, thought to be disproportionate- a common mistake- and that the boy elevated to a much higher status than the composition hinted at.
Finished with his coffee, Gerard packed his pencil into his small messenger bag and left the shop. A flutter of wind disturbed his hair and made Gerard peer slight left. On the corner of a streetlight, a large albatross sat perched. It was alone. A king atop the streetlight, it looked down at the passerby. Gerard remarked at the length of its’ bill and walked on towards the shore. He took a left on Mariposa and followed it down past the park and to a series of steps that lead to the beach. The albatross left his perch and floated silent behind Gerard as he walked. Gerard would step and the albatross would flap, united in movement and nothing more. It was a silent connection, Gerard unaware of the flying beast behind him. He reached the bottom and crossed the railroad tracks. It was mid afternoon and the sun was still hidden behind the fog. The sun never hid long enough in the afternoon, burning a hole through it to find pale skin to singe.
Gerard, in boating shoes and jeans, descended the final steps onto the sand. He placed his sketchbook on the rocks near the sand and removed his shoes. He sat with his back to the houses and faced the moving water. It was in turmoil, the rip tide swishing right, sucking the undertow back towards it in a rhythm only the ocean knows. The albatross circled twice and this time Gerard saw it. He knew by the bill that it was the same one from the street light. The albatross ‘ wingspan was great and Gerard noticed something new to draw when rendering a bird’s wing. The interlocking feathers were not perpendicular to the actual wing- they were woven. In the midst of noting this difference, the albatross snapped its wings to its body and dove towards Gerard. It swirled downward and Gerard had to duck even further to avoid the great bird’s bill. Gerard looked up and noticed that the albatross had something in that great bill, something black and flat. He swiveled behind him and the sketchbook was gone.
The albatross flew out over of the tumultuous sea, noticing the weight of the book as false food. The bill opened and the sketchbook hung in the air for a moment, the sun glinted off the white pages. Gerard saw this in unison with the albatross, the pages flew for a minute with smaller wings, but its weight sunk it into the sea.
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