STINSON BEACH: At 10:45 a.m. a man who had taken an outdoor shower was running naked on the beach. — Point Reyes Light October 22, 2015
“Are all the Sheriff’s Calls like this, Doris?” Darlene Easton asked, pointing to the entry in the Light. She had just moved to town and was having her hair cut at a beauty salon in Point Reyes Station.
Doris clicked her scissors. “Um, well, hmm. Not all the time, Darlene.” Doris put down her brush and picked up her comb. “Sometimes we have cows in the road. It is a farming community, you know.” If only today. If she told her new customer that there were lots of loony people in town, would she walk out the door and never come back? Or would she continue to want all the gossip? There was no telling. “No, not really,” Doris lied. It would take more than all the fingers on her right hand to count the times naked people had run around Point Reyes.
Darlene was middle-aged, with a spattering of gray just above her ears. She seemed to like it short, which pleased Doris to no end.
“Is it always this quiet on a Monday?” Darlene asked, looking out on an empty street. A car went by every five minutes—about as different from L.A as she could imagine. “Where’s the nightlife in this town?” she asked. She leaned forward and pulled out her iPhone.
Doris lifted one hand and gestured over her shoulder to the bar next door. “Back there.”
“The restroom? Why, that’s disgusting,” Darlene said. She was a private investigator trying to retire. “Why are you smiling, Doris?”
“Not the restroom, the bar, the Western. It’s back through that door, or you can go around the front. They have live music on the weekends. During the week, it’s open all day and you can play pool.”
They heard the thunk of pool balls during the break.
“See?”
“What’s the crowd like there? Farmers? Ranch hands?”
“Locals,” Doris answered. “Good old boys. Everyone wears jeans. You want something fancy, go to the Station House across the street. Or to Tony’s or Nick’s Cove in Marshall. There’s all kind of places where they play live music, if that’s what you want.” Doris picked up her blow dryer. “And how would you like your hair?”
“Wild,” Doris said. “Use lots of product. I like a firm look, kind of like a space cadet.”
“I wouldn’t think you were serious.” Doris laughed.
“Maybe, just a little bit. Hell, I wanted quiet, so I moved here, so quiet is what I’ll get.”
“Just read the Light, Darlene. There’s not much quiet there. You’ll see.”
“From what I’ve already read, you may be right,” Darlene giggled. She had made the right decision, coming to this quiet hamlet. “You do toes too?”
Doris pulled out her pedicure tub. With no one else in the shop, Doris could take her time. Amanda Eichstaedt was broadcasting on KWMR.
The door burst open, ringing the chimes and startling both Doris and Darlene out of their reveries. It was Mrs. Rhinehart.
“Doris! Quick! The girls are coming. You’ve got to do something! I was following some instructions on the Internet and I used—well, never mind what I used. Look at my hair! It’s orange, Doris!”
The old lady cascaded into Darlene’s foot bath, making the water slosh and spill. Darlene lifted her head from reading Sensationally Sexy After Fifty magazine. “What the hell?”
“Pardon me! Pardon me!” Mildred exclaimed, pulling over a chair. “Doris! They’re coming this way! I’d bleach my own hair to get the color out, but I’m sure I’d get it in my eyes. Oh Doris, I’m so ashamed.”
Doris looked at Darlene, lifting her hands from the water. “Do you mind?”
Hell, Darlene didn’t mind. This was exactly the kind of action she was looking for. And entertaining, too. Besides, her bare feet were quite happy in the pedicure tub.
The old lady yanked off her head scarf while Doris pulled out a smock and let it drift over her tiny frame. Oxford shoes peeped out from the bottom of the chair and above, stockings, knee-high. Darlene averted her eyes.
The door crashed open again. Doris, sensing a fight, covered Mrs. Rhinehart’s face and hair with a towel and placed another smock over her feet.
“You seen her?” another elderly woman asked. “My son just gave me an iPhone, and he said I could take photos, and I thought it would be grand. Mildred, orange hair, the Light. That would beat Art Rogers’s photos any old day, wouldn’t it, girls?” She looked at Darlene. “And who are you?”
“Darlene,” Darlene answered, putting forth her hand for a shake. “I’d get up, but, you know.” She wiggled her toes in the bath.
“Who’s under the towel?” The second old lady asked. “Is that Mildred?”
“Darlene’s daughter,” Doris answered. “Now, do you mind, Mrs. H., I have customers waiting.”
“You want a good photo, Mrs. H.?” Doris asked. “Go on down to Stinson. There’s been another sighting.”
“Of whom? Of what? A killer whale? Another surfer? Mildred?”
“A naked man,” Doris said, pulling out her pedicure kit, sponge, towels, cuticle remover and polish. “Color, Darlene?”
“A naked man!” shrilled Hortense. “I’m out of here! That’s way better than Mildred with orange hair.” She turned and ran out of the shop. “Come on, girls,” she shouted to the other ladies who were peering through the picture window. They all ran down the ramp, purses high on their arms, got into an old Nash and disappeared down the block.
Mildred pulled the towel off her head. “Thanks, Doris. It was tough to breathe under there.”
“Mrs. Rhinehart, can you wait a moment and I’ll take care of Ms. Easton here first, then remove the color from your hair?”
“Don’t you dare!” Mildred looked in the mirror again, adjusted her orange curls. “I kind of like it.” She reached for her purse. “Put me in for next week then, Doris.” She stood by the door. “Where was that naked man again?”
“Stinson,” Doris said. Mildred flew out the door.
“My kind of town,” Darlene sank back in her chair and lifted one foot. “Fire engine red, Doris, I think I’m going to like this place.”
Susanna Solomon, a resident of both San Anselmo and Point Reyes Station, finds humor and delight in the Sheriff’s Calls, where she draws inspiration for her short stories. Her second collection, “More Point Reyes Sheriff’s Calls,” is planned for a summer release.