Angel at the Jersey Shore
By Maria Ligos
Today was one of those days where I needed to get away. A nagging feeling had been with me lately. My mother was getting up in years and her health was declining. Last night when I spoke to her, I asked if there was anything she wanted to do on Sunday. She said no, she was going to stay home and read the paper. She’s been like that a lot lately. Just wants to stay home and read.
It was a mild, sunny day this mid-April. I placed a stack of CD’s in my car and drove to Cape May. It’s about a three hour drive from the western suburbs of Philadelphia, where I live. For me, it’s a relaxing escape to listen to music and go on a long drive. My friend Cathy, who lives in Cape May, agreed to meet for dinner. I placed Springsteen’s Greatest Hits CD in the player and headed for the bridge.
When I reached Cape May I drove to the bayside beach prepared to soak up the warm sun. It was a fabulous spring day; sunny, mild, light breeze. The waves lapped the shore and the seagulls laughed. The salty breeze felt good. That nagging feeling about my mother creeped into my thoughts. I knew one day that dreaded call was going to come, and that call was going to come soon.
Something made me look up. A neurotic looking man with thick dark rimmed glasses and tousled hair who reminded me of Woody Allen approached. “Do you know what time it is?”he asked.
“No, I don’t.”
“Sorry to bother you. Have a nice day.”
Even though I felt a little uneasy, I went back to my dream-like sunny day bliss and soon forgot the incident. After a while, I walked closer to the bay and along the beach. The sand was warm from the sun. My feet, not yet toughened against the shards of shells caused me to walk gingerly. I walked for a few minutes, and then decided I would drive over to the “big beach” in Cape May. I wanted to browse the shops and boutiques.
I walked along the promenade first, still wanting to take in the sea breeze. I crossed Beach Avenue at Perry with a group of people gathered at the light. When I reached the other side, another Woody Allen looking man, same tousled hair, and same dark-rimmed glasses approached me, and asked what time it was. At this point, I was slightly annoyed. What, a Woody Allen look-alike convention in Cape May? Oddly, he only approached me, not the others. “No” I repeated. “Thank you. Have a nice day.” He said. That was too weird. I would have been creeped out if there was no one around. But I continued with my agenda, browsing the shops in the Washington Mall.
I chatted with Mr. LaBella, a man in his late sixties and the owner of the shoe store named after him. “I don’t think I’m going to be here another five years” he ranted. “Do you see all the ice cream shops? Not many apparel shops left … all ice cream stores … there’s six ice cream stores on the mall … how many ice cream stores do we need? ... I think I’m going to sell ice cream!” His ranting worked; I bought a pair of shoes. The book store was having a “going out of business” sale. Behind the counter, a sign read: “No, we don’t know when we’re closing. No, there are no more discounts. No, we don’t honor club cards. No, you can’t return it if you don’t like it.” Outside the fudge store, a young woman held a plate of fudge for passersby to sample. The smell of coffee drifted out from the gourmet shop. Some teenagers skated by on their skateboards. The sun was sinking in the sky, and I was supposed to meet Cathy for dinner at the diner on highway nine.
