Rancho
Mirage
It’s
happy hour on a sweltering September Saturday in the
Southern California desert. Just off Golden State Street, a
lighthouse beam flickers unnoticed by residents of a small mobile home
park.
A party
of other-worldly men, women and three children encircle
a beloved host disavowed and newly cast adrift.
“I
like it. I like it here,” guests recite brightly in and out of this far-flung, white-siding-ed encampment.
Inside,
a spread of stewing meatballs, assorted glassy cheese slices and crackers,
cookies, marinating fruit bites, and
valiant sandwiches on toasted bread quarters conspires
to celebrate its unmoored creator’s past and present birth.
Outside, sporadic breezes
of change carry soothing recollections of first meetings
and hope for shared milestones across a covered concrete
porch. Behind a bar at the far end, unsalted margaritas and various wines are
generously mixed and served with the novice determination and proficiency of
Boy Scout pledges. Barfly banter morphs into shoring
up the young mates’ loyalty
for their discarded co-captain’s unwavering devotion to their safe
harbor.
A
new layer of a pineapple upside-down life begins to rise.
