My father’s last words to me were to look after my mother.  He didn’t have to ask.  Even before he passed away, I’d been haunting their backyard in a succession of broken-down campers whenever I was in town.  The pop-up is perhaps the fifth or sixth incarnation of the same camper set-up, more because my father liked to shop for them, then that anyone, outside of myself, ever occupied them. 

I was with my mother for a year and a half after his death, crashing in a disintegrating Toyota Dolphin.   The family had just managed to tow it away, when the pandemic broke out and, all of a sudden, there I was, back in her yard again.  I appreciate my brother finding the pop-up and setting it up for me.  If I didn’t have that to shelter me from the wind and the rain, I’d probably be joining Santos in the riverbed.

Being a ghost, not everyone can see me.  Sometimes people do see me, but it is never how I really am.  My mother sees me as the boy that I never was, a good boy, quiet and responsible.  She is a nice lady and the last thing I want to do is shatter her illusions.  She is lucky to live so close to the beach, but spends many long days by herself, all alone, with her hair turning whiter. 

I thought she might like to see something of the surf contest and suggested we walk down and get a hamburger.  It took her a half hour to get ready.  She couldn’t decide what shoes to wear.  Was it hot or was it cold?  I didn’t know.  Those determinations can be very subjective.  To me, it was kind of in the middle.

We walked down to PCH and just as we passed CVS pharmacy, Ezra, from the Gallows surf crew. passed by in his black van, his eyes set on the road ahead of him.  On the other side of the road, I saw a poltergeist who’d been missing in action for a while, Fresno Joe, along with his stumpy sidekick, the Frisco Kid.  They were usually at the Pier Plaza in the middle of the day, drinking out of paper bags, sometimes fighting other ghosts, sometimes fighting each other.  Fresno Joe likes a lot of attention.  It is impossible to ignore him.  His creates the kind of disturbance that causes people to sell their homes and abandon whole neighborhoods. 

My mother witnessed none of this.  All she noticed were the pretty blue banners, strung from every light pole.

We walked out on the pier.  By now it was very windy and the sea was impossibly rough.  Kamikaze fighters might have found the conditions favorable.  Even the top surfers in the world had to beware of being blown to smithereens.  At the same time, giant riptides were sucking huge swaths of the beach out to sea.  It looked more like intergalactic warfare than a surf contest.  We decided to head down to the Van’s Village.

Even with her cane, and the only one on the beach wearing a COVID mask, my mother managed to navigate the wooden sidewalks pretty well.  We walked through the main merchandise hall and then headed over to the craft and music booth.  There we both made buttons featuring a finger making the number one sign.  Her’s turned out colorful and bright, mine dismal and gray, the fingernail as black as the dead of night.

They were giving away free hotdogs, but we’d come down for a hamburger, so made our way over to Zach’s.  There were table outside with red umbrellas.  I told my mother to sit down and reserve one of them and I would order us the food.  It took forever.  The guy in front of me must’ve been ordering for a whole surf team or camera crew.  They kept stacking up chili- cheese fries on the counter. 

When I finally got the hamburgers, I took them back to my mother.  Normally not one to complain, she’d only taken two bites before she stopped eating and looked down at her burger in dismay.  The patty looked bright red, way undercooked.  Mine looked the same, but after waiting in line as long as I had, I was prepared to wolf it down regardless.  The line was now longer than it had been before.  Reluctantly, I took her burger back and asked if they could throw it on the grill a few more minutes. 

When I got it back, my mother started eating and then stopped again, showing me that the meat inside was still red.  I took it from her and that was the case.  When I stood up with it though and saw it in the sunlight it looked fine.  What had happened was that the sun shining down through the red umbrella had only made it look raw.  In reality, by now it was beyond well done.  It was a good thing I saw that before taking it back to the cook and asking him to put it on the grill once more. 

He might’ve jumped over the counter with a knife.