Getting a Tan

I've been working on my tan. Indeed, this has become an obvious obsession to anyone around me. I think the effort has been going pretty well, and the golden skin I garnered in my youth as a lifeguard in Iowa is at least 60% comparable.

Adversely, I'm living in a damp and dark "cabin" in downtown Fairbanks. It's a lovely little hole to crawl into, certainly nothing fancy, (I've been told this actually isn't a "cabin" because it has running water. Eh, whatevs...) but certainly a place that's hard to come home to in the middle of the midnight summer sun.

Which, ultimately, gives me a standing excuse to work on my tan.

So after work I decided to stop on the riverwalk, read and soak up the sun. I chose a park bench, forgoing my usual choice of a grassy knoll. My bike was laid on the bench to my right, and my backpack was open on my left. I took up the majority of the bench, intentionally, as if to signify it was mine, and my intent was to be alone.

But that was not the case.

The first visitor, a straggly Native man wearing too many clothes in such hot weather! Jeans and tennis shoes, a long sleeved shirt, and a button up jean shirt slung across his shoulder. He had shaggy hair and an oversized hat.

His eyes were small and close together, and his skin was thick and brown; his face cratered by bad acne, or maybe something else.

"What are you reading?"

"Chocolat"

"Have you ever heard of the author Ann Rule?"

"No."

"She wrote Green River, Running Red about that guy in Seattle who murdered all the people along the banks? She also wrote the one about Jeffery Dahmer." (I've learned he may have been referring to Ted Bundy.) She's a murder mystery author."

He proceeded to go into detail about the real cases of horrific serial-killer stories that she has written. I phased out a little for two reasons. 1) I was assessing the man. What did he want? Why was he talking to me about mass-serial killer mystery books? 2) Jarred out of my book of a dainty French village and chocolate, I felt sensitive to the subject matter. It made me uncomfortable.

But I sensed that he just wanted to talk to someone. So I engaged.

Intuitively it seemed, he sensed my sensitivity. "I was a Marine. I guess people just like different things."

"Well, at least you read! That is the good part!"

He laughed and started walking past my bike. I was sure he wanted to snatch it. "I don't read!"

Then he pointed to my skin. "Too white. You get dark like me and I'll marry you!"

We both exploded with laughter as he exited. I went back to reading.

Guy No. 2 walks by. As he passes, I smell the unmistakeable scent of hard alcohol.

"What are you reading?"

I respond.

He asked if he could have a seat, and before I could reply, he took one. He was from Canada he said, Fort Yukon, upriver. Right as he sat down, another man passed us.

"Vehicle," he murmured. "Ma'am can I borrow your vehicle?" he aggressively asks me.

"No, sir," I brightly replied. He chuckled and walked off.

I returned to my new visitor. He was in town for the WEIO competing in his first high-kick competition. His kick was 10 feet. The record was 11.5. We chatted about being in Alaska, he visiting a few times, only once to Anchorage, and first time in Fairbanks, and I here for two months.

"Two months and you still white?!" He held his arm up to my leg.

I admired it. "Oooh, very nice and dark."

"I'm always like that!"

He didn't stay long. He was looking for his cousin to bring back to Fort Yukon. But his cousin had run away from him and was now lost.