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Marvin’s father loved the sea so much that he became a part of it.
He drowned himself at the west harbor, pockets of rocks and lungs of water. Marvin was only six at the time but the memory is as clear as glass: the boats circling the bay with spotlights, the lifeless figure straining against the net as it was pulled from the ocean, his mother’s stunned grip on his shoulders.
Everyone else remembers it as just another silent tragedy that no one dares acknowledge but Marvin knows it as the last time his mother ever let him near the ocean.
Everyday since then, as if hearing the way the water calls to him just as he does, Marvin’s mother warns, “Don’t go near the sea.”
Marvin doesn’t listen. He never does.
:: - ::
During the summers off college, Marvin waits tables at a disreputable bar - if not to make a few extra bucks then at least just to get out of his mother’s house. The bar is mainly home to people who have no home—drifters, transients, sailors . Marvin tries to keep a low profile but sooner rather than later word gets out that Marvin will shell out a few free beers for a hell of a good story or two.
And that’s how the sailor finds him—not because Marvin was particularly striking, though he’d like to think that way during his most conceited frames of mind, or because of some cosmic destiny that orchestrated this meeting, though Marvin had convinced himself of that fact for a very long time. No, it was simply because the sailor wanted some free beer.
No romance. No predestination. Just plain old frugality.
“Brown,” He’s the type of guy that introduce his last name first, like a debonair James Bond that Marvin finds both infuriating and charming, “Whizzer Brown.”
The man doesn’t have the uniform or cut of the hair of a sailor but his calloused hands and ocean spray skin tell a different story.
Marvin lingers at the table too long to plead ignorance of the formality, so he responds in kind, “Marvin.”
“Well, Marvin,” He begins, drawing out his name and smiling in a way that makes Marvin’s palms sweat, “I hear you’re looking to hear a story.”
Marvin shakes his head, leaning down to scrub Whizzer’s table with an old dish rag, “I’ve heard them all before.”
“No,” Whizzer says lowly, just on the outskirts of Marvin’s ear, “You haven’t.”
Whizzer’s skin smells of sea salt and his breath crashes against the side of Marvin’s head like a wave. And he can hear his mother distantly, the ever-present reminder: stay away from the sea.
But Marvin feels himself getting pulled in, can only watch as a passenger to his own body as he slides Whizzer a beer and implores him to continue.
:: - ::
Whizzer Brown has a nice voice. It’s the voice of a storyteller—he knows how to quicken his voice to convey the adrenaline of the scene, how to put just enough emphasis on a phrase to hint that it may come into play later, how to describe the surroundings to make Marvin feel like he was actually there tasting the same foods and seeing the same sights, how to make every single a story feel more like an experience rather than a string of words.
“So you’re a sailor without an army, a crew, a mission, a country, and a purpose.” Marvin clarifies haughtily, pretending to scrub the table next to Whizzer’s in an attempt to look busy.
“I have a purpose.” Whizzer argues, taking a long sip, “It’s seeing the world.”
“That’s a desire,” Marvin says dismissively, “Not a purpose.”
“Not all purposes have to be boring.” Whizzer shoots back, “True, some people are destined to settle down, start a family, wait tables.” Marvin gives him a dark look but Whizzer continues unabated, “But some people are programmed differently. They feel a pull to an unconventional walk of life. Like, I hear the sea calling me, Marvin, clearer than a desk job or a lover ever has.” Marvin belatedly notices that he’d stopped scrubbing, had actually been frozen still.
Marvin breaks the glacier of his body, bites out hollowly, “You’re drunk.”
The barkeeps kicks both of them out as he closes for the night, and Marvin doesn’t get paid considering the deep tab he put on his own bill for Whizzer’s sake. They stumble out onto the dimly lit street corner, both a little too drunk and a little too wild to stay idle for long.
Marvin looks over to the direction of his house, the path back home so clearly defined in his mind.
But then Whizzer says, “Do you wanna see my boat?” And home is forgotten, meaningless, nonexistent.
“ Yes. ”
Whizzer leads him down to the docks, and if he notices the slightest stumble in his step or tremor in his voice, he probably blames it on the alcohol. Marvin feels his heart slam against his chest like a drum, the effort to breathe becoming more and more difficult with each step closer to the shore. It’s almost like he’s becoming his father, struggling at the bottom of the ocean and loving every minute of it.
Whizzer’s boat is tiny and seedy, the deck being only able to house one man comfortably and the sail frail enough to be carried by even the cool night breeze. Marvin is enchanted though, catching his breath as Whizzer helps him on board.
The ground is unsteady beneath his feet, the deck wobbling with every incoming current. Marvin feels a lurch in his stomach but it’s not of sea sickness.
It’s of yearning.
A yearning so strong that it scares him, that it sends him running home scared and ashamed.
But he goes back. He always does.
:: - ::
He goes back that following morning, upset to find Whizzer trying to tie off his boat.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Marvin demands.
Whizzer looks a little caught off guard, his gaze narrowing at the entitled pitch of Marvin’s voice.
“I came here to try the key lime pie,” Whizzer explains, shrugging, “This morning, I hit up the place next to that bar for some. So, mission accomplished.” He continues tying off the boat and Marvin panics, gripped with the overwhelming desire to keep him here.
“That place is shit,” Marvin blurts out, “I’ll show you where to get the best.” It’s not a suggestion, not an offer, not a plea. Marvin just tells him, leaving no room for even consideration.
But Whizzer does consider, looking him up and down and trying to determine if he likes what he sees.
Eventually, he straightens up, saying wryly with a mock salute, “Aye, aye.” He silently ties the ropes back, surprised when Marvin immediately goes to help him. When they’re done, Whizzer is standing closer to Marvin than he ever had before.
“Lead the way, Captain.” Whizzer says, mocking him. It should bother him more than it does but Marvin is too enraptured with the moniker that he forgets it’s sarcasm.
One quick stop at a dessert place leads an impromptu tour of the beach town. Marvin tells Whizzer about the history of the streets, every once in awhile tossing in boring anecdotes that nonetheless make Whizzer smile or chortle seemingly against his will. He tells him which shops to avoid, which type of people not to piss off, which street corner to piss in if you’re in a hurry and don’t want to get caught.
By the time they go back to the docks, the sun is setting on the horizon. They’re standing in front of Whizzer’s boat again, just like before, but now Whizzer is watching him, gauging his reactions.
“Do you wanna come onboard?” He asks.
Marvin looks at the sway of the boat, the water rising to lick at the wood.
“I should get going.” Marvin says, a bit strangled.
He starts to walk away before, calling out in a panic, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” He runs before Whizzer could offer any confirmation or refusal.
When he gets home, his mother is waiting for him, “Where were you?”
Marvin’s response is quick, easy, truthful, “With a friend.”
:: - ::
Weeks pass. Whizzer stays.
Marvin quits the job at the bar to spend his days with him, listening to Whizzer’s stories and preening when Whizzer laughs at the inane comments Marvin blurts out. Sometimes, they spend their time on the cobblestone streets, shopping for tangible things they don’t need and talking about things that don’t matter. Sometimes, they go out of town to the greenery landscape, looking for intangible things and talking about things that matter a great deal. Very rarely, they go onto the beach, both boys silent and in awe of the water that stretches out to the horizon.
Marvin is always guarded when they go to the beach, always looking over his shoulder and hesitating each time the waves snake up to touch his feet. One night, at a deserted spot of the beach, hidden by shrubbery and rock formations, Whizzer puts a hand on Marvin’s knee.
“Are you afraid right now?” Whizzer asks abruptly, as if the ocean breeze amplifies the sound of Marvin’s quickening heartbeat.
Marvin could lie but he doesn’t, “Yes.”
Whizzer keeps his gaze carefully fixated on the horizon, asking after a beat, “Of the water?”
The tide comes and blankets their legs before crawling back to the sea.
Marvin answers, “No.”
Whizzer looks at him then, his face illuminated by the full moon, “Of me?”
Whizzer’s hand remains on his knee but his palm flattens and his fingers briefly wander into the inside of Marvin’s thigh.
Marvin answers, “No.”
Whizzer laughs with the crash of a wave. Marvin wants to crawl into and live in that sound.
“Good,” Whizzer says, nodding his head, “That’s good.”
They make love on the shoreline, each crashing wave of the roaring sea parallel to each thrust of bodies.
Another night—many, many nights after that night—Marvin stops mid-kiss, chapped-lip and red-faced, and confesses, “I have a girlfriend.” And she’s nice and all, but she can’t tell a story like Whizzer can, doesn’t have his calloused hands nor ocean spray skin.
“Of course,” Whizzer says, a little too dismissive of the fact, “They always do.”
Marvin feels torn apart at that moment, pushing Whizzer back and straightening up, “I’m not a they .”
Whizzer realizes his mistake instantly, reaching out to hold Marvin’s hand.
“No, you’re not,” Whizzer agrees, drawing Marvin back in, like always, “You’re you .”
At the time, Marvin thinks it’s a compliment, an admission of feelings, a confirmation that what they have is real.
But later, Marvin realizes it was just a statement of a fact, a half-truth to keep him around for a few more good rounds.
:: - ::
They show eachother their treasures. Marvin shows Whizzer his sand dollars, his mother’s old sea glass, his father’s dusty sailor uniform.
“Your dad was a sailor?” Whizzer asks, surprised.
Marvin nods, “He quit when he married my mom, settled down here to start a family.” It’s probably what killed him, Marvin doesn’t say but Whizzer seems to know anyway.
“Did you ever want to be a sailor?” Whizzer asks, seemingly just to fill the silence but also watching Marvin’s expression.
Marvin is shaking his head yes before he could even think to lie.
He bites his lip and clarifies, “When I was little, yeah. But, uh, it doesn’t really pay much.” He’s nervous, caught off guard, so he starts to ramble, “Besides, my family’s here, I go to school here, I even have a nice job here waiting for me when I graduate. I can’t just - you know - leave all that.” Whizzer doesn’t agree - it shows in the way his lips purse and eyes narrow - but he doesn’t argue with Marvin for once.
Instead, Whizzer shows him his trinkets from around the world: silks from Asia, art from Italy, silver from Spain.
“It even has my name on it.” Whizzer says proudly, brandishing his braided chain and silver locket.
Marvin touches it gingerly, transfixed and envious.
“You should go someday,” Whizzer says, a weird pitch of voice, “I could show you around.”
But Marvin is barely listening, looking at the metal, and that is his first mistake.
:: - ::
The summer is drawing to a close. Each day that they spend together finally starts to feel like borrowed time.
Marvin pretends that everything is normal, telling the same stories and laughing at the same jokes, but he notices Whizzer always looking over his shoulder, back to the docks, back to his boat, back to the sea. Whizzer makes them spend more days on the beach, raving about how good the water feels, how the sun shines perfectly, how the wind seems to be playing a song just for them.
Marvin plays along but he hates it, hates how the ocean is making Whizzer laugh louder than Marvin has for weeks now.
“I miss the sea.” Whizzer confesses one day, tangled up in Marvin.
Marvin’s voice is icy, uncompromising, “There’s nothing to miss. It’s still right there, Whizzer.”
“You’re right,” Whizzer concedes in a murmur, “It’s right there, just out of my reach.”
The next day, against Whizzer’s wishes, Marvin takes him on a tour of the many available houses and apartment buildings, ignoring the creeping edge of resentment building in the sailor’s eye. That night, on their spot at the beach, Marvin makes them sit as close to the mainland as possible, where the tide can’t even touch them anymore. As Marvin kisses his neck and dips his hand in Whizzer’s shorts, Whizzer says gently, “I can’t stay.”
Marvin shakes his head and pulls Whizzer closer to him, as if trying to devour him whole just so the sea cannot have him.
“Yes, you can,” Marvin assures, resentment creeping into his voice as he adds icily, “You just don’t want to.”
Whizzer pushes him away, responding honest and matter-of-fact, “Alright, fine, I don’t want to.”
Marvin stares at him, gutted.
Whizzer returns his stare, actually having the nerve to look heartbroken.
“What else can I do?” Marvin asks lowly, humbling himself, practically begging on his knees, “What will make you stay?”
Whizzer swallows hard and has his own question, “What will make you come with me?”
Marvin feels that lurch again, the sea calling to him.
But then reality sets in again, the anchor to this place tying a noose around Marvin’s neck.
“But everything is here .” A legacy, a job, a family.
Whizzer doesn’t even consider it, shaking his head and gesticulating to the sea swallowing the horizon, “No, everything is there .” Adventure, experience, Whizzer.
Marvin turns and starts walking away, saying, “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.” But Whizzer is grabbing ahold of Marvin’s shoulder, stopping him.
“I’m leaving in two hours.” Whizzer says, turning him around and slipping something in Marvin’s hand, “Pack your things, write a note, come with me.”
Marvin pushes Whizzer away, saying curtly, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
But Whizzer grabs him again, smashing their lips together—desperate, sad, understanding.
Marvin lingers whenever they have to break the kiss, breathing Whizzer in and trying to make him stop, make him say yes, make him stay.
“Two hours.” Whizzer repeats.
“Tomorrow.” Marvin repeats.
When Marvin gets home, the house is dark and quiet. Marvin’s mother had stopped waiting up on him weeks ago, though she doesn’t fail to give him shit about it every chance she gets. Marvin finally looks down at the object in his hand, taken aback by the smooth silver and the braided chain.
Marvin gingerly puts it on and the locket falls right on top of his heart.
Marvin runs to his room, gets out a bag, and starts packing. He packs clothes, takes his sea glass and sand dollars, steals money from his mother’s purse, shoves his father’s old uniform in the bag at the last second before he can think more about it. He lingers at the kitchen table, looking for the yellow page notebook that his mother uses for reminders. He finds it squirreled away on the counter next to the house phone, and he’s about to rip off a page when he catches sight of some of today’s written reminders.
Trina called, 2pm. Tell Marvin that she has something important to tell him.
University starts in a week. Remind Marvin to talk to his advisor for his senior year check-in.
Mr. W called. Lunch with Marvin tomorrow at two to talk about future at company.
Marvin reads them all, then reads them again, then read them again. Slowly, reluctantly, his grip on his bag loosens to the point that it drops to the floor.
Marvin stashes the packed bag under his bed before lying down on the mattress.
His hand goes to grip the silver locket, and his eyes fall shut, and he whispers, “Tomorrow. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
:: - ::
Marvin goes to the docks early the following morning. Whizzer is gone.