Last night Caithlin and I ended up talking with two different men at different times out by the beach.

The first was a Jamaican named Treasure (not his real name). Big time flirt. He said he’d seen me before. It wasn’t a line. He had seen me before but I didn’t let on. It was the day before, maybe 200 ft away from where we were. He yelled out from across the way, “Miss! Miss! I like your hair!”

Why would I let on that I knew that? Let him figure it out.

Anyway, he reminded me a lot of one of the most wonderful men in my life. A neighbor from a Tucson named Bobby who could regale you all night with stories. Bobby is one of my father figures. If I were to ever introduce a man to Bobby (which I never did), I feel like the guy would have to be his best self and try to impress Bobby.

Treasure even looks like Bobby. He’s a mix of Irish, Indian and Black with brown skin and curly hair. Good looking guy probably in his 50’s. Swims in the ocean. Full of bluster and blarney. Breaks into his Jamaican accent when he’s feeling himself. Talks about swimming in the ocean like an orca. Feeling held by the water like a baby. And about all the family intrigue no one else is curious about.

He kept saying the beaches he hangs out on. I’ll probably see him again this summer. I want to hear all his stories.

The second guy was a bartender at some restaurant. Little black guy named Cedrick. He had a brutal commute back to The Bronx. Sometimes four hours.

You can tell he wants to talk.

Caithlin and me, we needed to get home. It was after midnight and the trains were running funny. So we order a car. But Cedrick wants to talk. We say our goodbyes and as we’re walking out of the train station he yells, “Talk to God everyday! Every day! And soon it will become a conversation!”

This could be intense. Maybe even frightening. But not to me. I know he knows what he’s talking about because I know the conversation so we’ll at this point I don’t even question it.