Chapter 4: Unexpected Reunion
The early afternoon sun shone brightly in the sky, warming the Santa Cruz coast side to a balmy seventy degrees. A soft, ocean breeze kept the temperature just warm enough for a day at the beach, but also cool enough to render heatstroke an impossibility. "Now this is a low stress environment," declared Velma, as she reclined in the beach chair she had brought with her. "Just what I need to relax my mind and prepare for the week ahead." Adjusting her sunshades, she took a deep breath and gazed somewhat nostalgically at the scene in front of her. Her mind wandered momentarily as she recalled the many times she had spent at the beach with Fred, Daphne, Shaggy and Scooby, and how those seemingly innocuous beach trips always ended in some kind of bizarre mystery. No chance of that happening here, she thought to herself, then turned her attention to the copy of Popular Science that she had brought with her.
The only thing that bothered her was her wardrobe choice. Even Velma had enough fashion sense to know that a bulky turtle neck sweater would not be appropriate for a day at the beach; so she opted for an alternate top, an orange, three-quarter sleeve V-neck tee shirt that she had picked up on her last shopping trip with Daphne. Velma never liked how the shirt's low cut revealed more of her chest than she cared to show, but she bought the shirt, primarily to please Daphne whose idea it had been to try the thing on in the first place. The young girl never imagined herself wearing the shirt in public, and she had only packed it after hearing about the weather on the news the night before her departure. Secretly, she hoped that the forecast would be inaccurate and that she would not have to wear it, but now, here she was, lying on the beach wearing that shirt. And even though the low cut was not visible from the angle at which she was seated, she rested the magazine on her chest in an attempt to cover up what her shirt had missed.
Velma closed her eyes and reclined in the chair, enjoying the feel of the sun upon her face and the occasional cool breeze that rustled her short, brown hair; the peaceful setting was exactly what she needed to soothe her frayed nerves. She drifted slowly into her own world, the warmth of the sun lulling her to sleep.
Pass the duchie from the left hand side… A feedback- laced version of Bob Marley's song floated down the beach on the breeze, waking Velma from her nap. With a disgusted groan, she reached up and covered her ears, glancing in the direction of the music. Jinkies, she muttered to herself, how rude—to think that the rest of us want to listen to their music! The bespectacled girl returned to her magazine, pretending to ignore the music, and failing miserably. At least fix the feedback! she grumbled to herself. I might actually be able to tolerate the music without that dreadful interference.
Almost as quickly as it began, the music stopped. Heaving a sigh of relief, Velma returned to her tanning and her magazine, satisfied that whoever had been blasting the music had the sense to turn it down.
Hello, I love you won't you tell me your name? Oh, not again, groaned Velma. Well, so much for a relaxing day at the beach, I'm going back to the hotel to sit by the pool; at least it's quieter there! Reluctantly gathering her belongings, she headed across the road to the dirt parking lot, but stopped just short of climbing into her car. Her detective's mind began cranking out numerous questions about the mysterious and annoying tunes—where was the music coming from? What was going on? And who on earth would listen to such disparate musical genres? Surely the revelers could hear the feedback for themselves, then why wouldn't they correct it? She had to learn the answers to those questions, and the only way to find out was to do a little investigating. Following her ears, she began walking in the direction of the discordant music, leaving the beach behind her and crossing into a wooded area.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Velma positioned herself behind the thick trunk of a redwood tree, close enough to observe the scene, yet far enough away to not be noticed. A thin curtain of hazy smoke hung over the area, as though deliberately obscuring the group that had created it. The young girl squinted, partly to keep the smoke out of her eyes, and partly to see the scene more clearly. Through the haze, she could discern a semi-circle of late model VW vans and several human figures. Numerous scroungy looking dogs wandered among the revelers, some pausing to accept food. A modern day hippie commune she surmised, but she couldn't help feeling that something was odd about the scene in front of her.
A large, brown mastiff wandered in and out of the various humans. Unlike the other dogs in the commune, the mastiff appeared well fed and well cared for, and Velma wondered what this purebred dog was doing among the numerous stray mongrels.
The brown mastiff sat down alongside a tall, lanky hippie, and Velma concluded that the skinny man was the dog's owner. The man and his dog did not participate in the obviously drug-influenced revelry, preferring instead to observe it from a distance. The man listened to the music, tapping his foot and snapping his fingers, uttering a "yeah" every so often. Even the dog seemed to enjoy the festivities, bobbing its head in time to the music.
Velma focused for a long time in the man and his dog, wondering if Shaggy and Scooby were perhaps enjoying a similar lifestyle in some other part of the city. Come to think of it, Velma thought, they DO look somewhat like Shag and Scooby. The skinny man spun around, dancing to the music, allowing Velma to catch a quick glimpse of his face. Although she could not clearly see him, she smiled at the stranger's resemblance to Shaggy.
A sudden, pounding headache woke the young girl from her daydream. Odd, she mused to herself, I wonder what could be bringing on this migraine? Instinctively, though, she knew the answer to her own question. A few sniffs at the ambient air confirmed her suspicions; the air was filled with the unmistakable odor of burning marijuana. Velma made a sour face. Ick, she coughed to herself, fanning the air and covering her mouth. No wonder those people had no idea about the feedback on their sound system—they were probably completely oblivious to it. Momentarily ignoring the disgusting smoke, she turned her attention back to the man and his dog.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The mastiff paused for a moment; a strange, yet familiar scent had reached his nose. Sniffing the air, he turned to the man and uttered a questioning grunt.
"Hey, buddy, like what'cha got?"
"R'ome one's r'here." The dog sniffed the air again, attempting to confirm the source of the scent; his expression brightened as he yelped excitedly, "Rit's Relma!"
"Velma?" the hippie asked, doubtfully. "Scoob, I think all that smoke is getting to you."
The dog shook his head vigorously. "Ruh ruh. R'it's Relma. R'I row it." The dog put his nose to the ground, walking in circles, trying to pick up the scent.
The tall man watched his dog's odd behavior. "Like, why don't we go walk along the beach, okay buddy?" he suggested, but the dog paid no heed. "Scoob? Scooby?"
The dog's body stiffened into a "point" position. After holding the position for several seconds, he turned back to his owner. "Rollow re," he ordered.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Velma coughed a few times. The acrid smoke burned her eyes, causing them to tear and further blurring her vision. That's it, she muttered to herself. I better get out of here before I kill off all my brain cells! She turned to leave, but with her teary eyes, failed to see the dead tree stump in front of her. Tripping over it, she lost her balance and went flying forward, landing face down in a pile of pine needles, the force of the impact knocking her glasses from her face.
Nice going, Dinkley, she chided herself. Looks like Daphne's klutziness rubbed off on you. Velma lifted her head to survey the surrounding, but the environs were a blur without the corrective lenses. Dropping to her hands and knees, she began crawling along the forest floor, her sense of touch taking over for her temporary loss of sight. "My glasses," she whined, continually pawing the ground. "I can't see without my glasses."
Crunch. Crack. She stopped abruptly as she heard the sound of approaching footfalls upon the leaves. She glanced quickly to all sides of her, but it was no use; everything was a blur without her glasses.
Crunch…crack. Her sense of hearing told her that whoever or whatever was approaching was closer now. Nearly frozen by terror, she still managed to get to her knees, putting her arms up in front of her face, as if to say, don't hurt me.
"Velma, is that you?"
The stunned girl carefully brought herself to a standing position. "Shaggy?" she asked, in disbelief, brushing the pine needles and wet leaves from her clothes.
"Like, I believe these are yours, man," said the figure, handing the young woman her glasses. Gratefully receiving the spectacles, she placed them on her face and confirmed the identity of the man in front of her.
The nickname seemed more appropriate now than ever before. The man's sandy brown hair had grown into a scraggly looking mane, which he kept tied back in a matted pony tail. And while he still sported his trademark V-neck tee shirt and bell bottom jeans, both were worn and dirty from exposure to the elements.
Velma gaped incredulously at the wild looking man in front of her. She could scarcely believe that the disheveled hippie figure had once been such a close friend. A wave of conflicting thoughts suddenly began coursing through the young girl's mind. Her rational side informed her that this man was potentially dangerous and that she should back away; yet another side insisted that the man meant no harm and that this figure was really Shaggy—her Shaggy—under the guise of a hippie drifter. Velma stood motionless, assessing the situation; the other man seemed to do the same. After several long minutes, Velma took a tentative step towards the man, followed by another, this time with more confidence. With each successive step, the initial shock and fear melted away, and the young woman launched herself at the other man, her arms outstretched to receive him in an embrace. "Shaggy," she whispered softly, leaning against his chest and crying, "I can't begin to say how much I've missed you."
Shaggy fingered the girl's short, pixie haircut, plucking out the remaining pine needles. "Like, I've missed you too, Velms," he whispered, gently caressing her hair and running his hand down her cheek; her skin was soft and warm, unlike that of the other woman he had seen since entering the commune.
"Raowr?" Velma felt a cold nose nudge against her leg. Keeping one arm around Shaggy, she reached down and gently scratched the Dane behind his ears. "Oh, I've missed you too, Scooby-Doo," she cooed, softly.
"Re roo."
Velma smiled, nostalgically, the dog's "words" bringing back a flood of memories. The dog hadn't changed, surely he never would, but his owner? Velma was not so sure.
Shaggy hesitantly released the girl from the embrace. She's still the same Velma, he mused to himself, and she'll probably never change, but, like, is she ready to see how I have been living for these past few months? Shaggy did not know the answer to that question, and wasn't so sure if he wanted to. But, like, there is only one way to find out. "Come on, Vel," he urged, taking her hands. "I'll introduce you to the gang."
