Ventura

Ventura

I arrive at Ventura in the late morning on a cold, clear day. A beautiful New England beach lies ahead of a cold but clear blue sky. The Home is big and modern. Lots of white walls. Like a Greek resort or at least what I imagine one to look like. Rounded corners and arches. It isn’t marble. Is it called terra cotta? It looks very clean. Clinically clean. My wife is really happy to be here. I like it too. I have never been to a rest home but it does feel very restful here. The atmosphere is calm and relaxing like a spa. One can’t help but lower one’s voice and stroll slowly. One of the requirements of my stay is I have to choose a wellness activity and write an essay on Ventura. I think of other things named Ventura. Ventura blvd. Jesse Ventura. I feel like there’s another but it doesn’t matter they won’t be part of it.

I don’t remember the details but I feel like I am not here on vacation. I fucked up and I’m here to improve myself. At least it’s a nice place to do it. I’ll give it my best shot.

We walk to the beach and it’s magnificent with clean white sand. It must be 40 degrees outside. Cold and beautiful. My wife loves it. People are riding those bikes people ride on vacation with big smiles on their faces. I guess that’s their wellness activity. My wife is excited to ride bikes tomorrow and something else. I lose track as I think about how I won’t have time for any activities tomorrow because I have work at the car dealership in New Jersey at 11 o’clock. Tonight is my only time to experience all that Ventura has to offer. We go back inside and talk to someone who works there and they tell us about exercise and yoga classes. As they talk I look out the long rectangular window that spans the huge round wall of the building. I can see the sky but I have to lift myself up see the full beach scene. I wonder if the building was designed that way to impart a metaphor about lifting one’s self up to see the beauty of the world. Pretty clever for a rehab place if they did. Soon we go up a large spiral staircase that reminds me of a museum to the third floor. The room is large and open with beautiful dark wood furniture and off white couches. There’s a large dining area in the middle and floor to ceiling windows with views of the cold beach. I like it a lot. Our bedroom is wonderful. It has a plush king size bed with linen sheets and a giant modern shower. Ventura is pretty posh. I am eager to start writing my essay.

My wife is preparing a special dinner. Healthy Mediterranean food with bread to dip into a lentil sauce. I’m excited to eat it. I start to notice other guests coming up the stairs and poking around. I don’t like it but I guess that’s one of the rules of Ventura that anyone can go anywhere, so I am polite. The place is really nice and I liked checking it out too. I notice there are more bedrooms on the far side of the large common area and I wonder if maybe this whole floor isn’t just for us. I guess that’s would be a little unrealistic to have all this space for ourselves. I notice how everyone seems to know the dress code as they wander around in navy and white striped tops with flowing white pants and skirts. A young woman and her mother decide to explore our side of the room which I decide is pushing it and encroaching on my privacy. “Oh there’s nothing over here just our bedroom,” I tell them. They continue on and tell me “yeah we just wanna check it out and look around.” I really don’t like that. Shortly after my wife has dinner prepared and we sit down to eat at a large wooden table. As I begin to eat I look around and see other groups eating too at their own tables. They are all having lavish meals. I see one group taking two huge mouthwatering portions of lamb out of a charcoal oven built into the wall. Yum! Then a fat young boy about 12 years old comes to our table and samples some of our food. What the fuck?!! Not ok! I look to the other side of the table and see his mother standing there. She encourages him to try our food and tell her what he thinks. I’m really getting angry now but I just stare at my wife. She gives me an amused smile cause she knows this really bothers me. I am a generous person and I would share my food but I would prefer to offer it to someone not have them be so presumptuous as to just saddle up and dig in without even asking permission. Honestly I don’t like sharing my food, and it would bug me even if someone asked. Breaking bread is one thing but it’s another to watch a kid wipe his nose with his hand and then break my bread for himself. I start to realize things aren’t really making sense. There’s a lot of metaphors here at Ventura and the surroundings are changing too much. It’s a dream. Pretty soon I’ll wake up and the memories of Ventura will wash away like waves on its metaphorical beach. My wellness journey won’t start. I won’t write my essay. I won’t take a yoga class. I will never stop smoking weed. I’ll still drink too much and upset my wife from time to time. This is my life. The only part of this that’s real is I have work tomorrow at a car dealership in NJ at 11 o’clock.