The White Beret

What catches my eye is the bobbing white beret. We’re sitting at an upstairs window in the Monterey Chowder House sipping Bloody Marys and taking in a glorious March morning on the Bay. The pier is almost empty, the rain is passing inland; the sun bouncing off the water puddles. The restaurant music is something by one of the legendary Rat Pack guys.
Welcome to Southern California.
The bobbing beret, a shortish man with an easel, paint box, folding stool and umbrella is setting up next to the Whale Watching booth, in time for the noon-hour traffic, I suppose. By the time our Malpeques arrive, I notice white beret is ready for his first sitting. He reaches into his bag , whips out and slips on these gilt- framed shades, resets the beret just so. He clips some sketches of his best work on to the umbrella edge. He waits.
The Dungeness crab cakes arrive with a crisp glass of local sauvignon blanc demanding full attention. But I cant help it. I glance down. Our white beret sits patiently; with the sun's warmth comes the people.
Ahhh. An eye- popping Cobb, as only Socals conjure up salads, wafts by and lands to my left. This takes my eye to the dock as white beret seems to reach out, saying ‘’Finish up ,sir!”.
The espressos arrive and with them, an unexpected squall. I see the white beret itself slomo off screen as the artist grasps his umbrella , his stool, and grimaces as his ‘best work’ goes with the wind. He trots away in search of the beret.
Exiting the Chowder House, here’s the artist, his props and all, huddled under the awning. He digs into his bag and pulls out an identical white beret, “ A beret for the artist in you, sir?”
I thank the gods for the perfect food, and the artist for that almost detached, abstracted silent scene from a Hitchcock film.
“I’ll take two, please.” I fondle the berets, walk away, whispering, ”… on the aisle.”

the hidden eyes-

lost sketches

sink below the waves