Scenes from a Beachside Condo

Tall and handsome, he stands stock-still looking out at the water. His posture is elegant, I think. He remains motionless, not moving a single muscle. He doesn't even blink his eyes. How is that possible? I hear the clothes dryer beep and I remind myself that I should fold the clothing before it wrinkles, but I can't turn my eyes from him. The only movement I can discern is caused by the wind ruffling the hair on his head.
Wait! Did he just blink while I was looking at his head? His head turns my way, but the rest of his body remains motionless. I freeze. I don't turn away. I'm pretty sure he's not really looking at me. Then he takes a single step closer, stops and looks back at the water. I continue my staring, unabashedly. Cautiously, stealthily and extremely slowly he takes steps, one at a time, with lengthy pauses between, that bring him closer to me. One step closer, then he stops, then another step closer, and so it goes until there is now only the fence outside of the condo and the sea air separating us. His heads turns my way again, and he gives his head a thorough shake, as if to say, "Have you no shame?" Then, with slow, deep beats of his wings, wings spanning six feet, he lifts his body out over the water and disappears from my view. And the dryer beeps again, as it will every fifteen minutes until I open the dryer door.

***
You'd think I'd stop looking out the window, but it's hard when the view is so beautiful. I mean who doesn't enjoy looking at the sea? Every so often I see people, families frolicking, children squealing in delight, adults beach combing, or exercising, or walking the dog and such. So, at first I don't pay attention to the foursome walking the beach in the direction of the condo. Absentmindedly, I make the assumption that they are teens or young adults, although they are still too far to really tell. I think it's a combination of their clothing and their carefree antics. They each shoulder a backpack. One of them is tall and lean and he's clad only in shorts, gym shoes, and a long-sleeve, camouflage t-shirt, even though the temperature outside is hovering just under 60 degrees Fahrenheit. His hair is close-cropped, almost like a crew cut that has missed it's last trim. He is clearly the most animated of the group as he darts back and forth between his three partners. Sometimes he throws his arm around the shoulder of one, giving them a hug and what looks like a pep talk. Then he sashays to another and gives that friend a good-natured push.

The four stagger along the beach, and as it turns out stagger is a good description, as it is not the deep, sugar white sand that is making their gait wobbly. I suspect they are inebriated. And then wouldn't you know it? They stop just a few yards from the condo to rest on the sand. I can now easily see that the foursome consists of three guys and a girl. And I also can now see that the reason they have stopped is because the tall, animated guy has to relieve himself. As his trio of pals sit back in a semi-circle, blocking him from the pool area adjacent to the condo, he sinks to his knees in the sand, unzips his shorts and urinates. When he's done, the girl rises and walks to the palm area behind the beach. She looks out toward the street, like she's looking for something. I wonder what she's thinking, as she lights a cigarette and puffs away, her back to her friends. Her head is bare and her dark hair is super-long. She's wearing slacks and a woolen poncho that, for some reason, reminds me of something Michelle Phillips or Cass Elliot would have worn back in the mid '60s. She finishes her cigarette and turns her attention back to the guys. They pass a bottle of what looks like vodka, to each other. One of the four lies back, then rolls to one side and appears to "pass out" on the beach. The other guy, sporting a powder blue hoody and those hip hop pants that seem sure to fall to his ankles at any moment, is now sitting slumped over in a peculiar manner. The animated guy is dancing about in front of his audience of three, trying his best to engage his pals in the fun he seems to be the only one having. He grabs his backpack and pulls out a rifle! I call to my husband who is watching the AFC wildcard football coverage. "Come here! Look! Is that a gun?"
He laughs, "Well, maybe a bb-gun. Looks like a Red Rider. Must've been a Christmas gift." He turns his attention back to the game.

The animated one brandishes his bb-gun, attempting to incite his slumped over, but still sitting, friend. He then pokes the gun at the sleeping friend, who pushes the gun nozzle away and remains inert. The girl turns away and looks out toward the street. She quickly walks farther away from the group. She stops behind a large clump of palm fronds, stoops, unbuttons her slacks, lowers them and urinates. I can see the bare flesh of her thighs clearly and I wonder if I am the only person in this condo building who is witnessing this. She stands up, adjusts her clothing, lights a cigarette and walks back to her guy pals.

She says something to the one who is slumped over, the one with the powder blue hoodie. He rises, stumbles, falls to the sand, stands and stumbles again before gaining his balance. The girl turns and helps the animated dude to holster the Red Rider rifle into his backpack. He then walks over to the sleeping guy, nudges him, maybe says something, and the sleeping man puts forth his hand. I assume the animated fellow, who in kind reaches out, will help pull him to his feet. But, they merely shake hands, one of those hip-guy handshakes with a secret move thrown in, and the three walk off and leave him to slumber on, alone on the beach, as the sun begins to lower in the horizon. I watch the three cross the lot away from the condo. I watch them walk away until I can see them no more. And I look at the sleeping man, the drunken man, sleeping alone on a now deserted beach, as the sun sets and the temperature falls, a man who is only wearing slacks and a thin sweater...

Why do I look out the window?
Why don't I mind my own business?
Why aren't I watching football with my husband?
I make a mental note of the time. I wonder, if I wait until dawn before I call the authorities, will it be too late?