Tristan and I were standing on the beach walking towards the stately homes that lined his beachfront neighborhood of Belle Harbor in the Rockaways. Far from the chaos and human tragedy of my usual stomping ground near 116th.
"You know they are selling that home for a couple million dollars. I don't think anyone has bought it yet. Sure, let's go over there, " he said. The sun was beginning to set.
"Tristan Palm Springs", Belle Harbor, NYC, 2011. Juliana Beasley
The wind came up from behind us and his red hair flew into his face. Every so, often he would scoop up a swath and push it gently away from his eyes. The kindness and tenderness of this gesture seemed to reveal that he not only had a longstanding close relationship with the fiery curly mass on his head but, that he undoubtedly showed it the respect one might give a prized trophy.
As we got closer to the house, a middle-aged woman appeared from inside. She waved at us, smiling and called out as if she recognized us.
"Do you know her? " I asked Tristan.
"No, but she probably thinks she knows me. She probably thinks I'm Shaun White. This happens all the time."
He could have been right. When we approached her she was grinning and greeted Tristan as if she already knew him. Her face was ruddy and she seemed strangely overjoyed.
"Sure, come in and take photographs", she said after she told us that she had just moved in. I didn't expect such a welcoming gesture from a stranger even if she was Tristan's neighbor.
