Jim thought about pushing himself up using his arms and his legs. This did not warrant further elaboration, for the bridge tender was on break, and the idea alone, as basic as it should seem, provided little by way of results. Jim had not exercised since he had slung a hammer breaking down walls while in college. But was it really exercise if he was in the process of becoming dishonest? He had broken into that first home in order to turn it into an acquisition. After the initial load bearing slab of concrete crumbled, the ceiling and eventually the roof were on borrowed time. What had been a luxury for a few hardworking students, was now a foreclosure against the young owners who had no money left to make the necessary repairs while keeping the mortgage current. Jim told himself that the place had not been up to code anyway. After all, the supposed impact windows had been opened with the gentlest of knocks and enticed by the merest of justifications-which was why he never needed to exercise, eventually Jim conceded that the reinforced pane of glass, while faulty, had in fact been locked. Sometimes intellectual brilliance overshadowed muscular recognition-breaking and entering countered much that could be ascertained. It was not until he watched the house being wrapped with structural warning signs that Jim flexed his biceps and then his chest. No one would see his brutish side bouncing in a spotlight, it was cold, and his muscles were buried under six inches of layered sweaters and a winter coat. At least the alternative for feeling the sting was palpable, Jim was fine without showing off, in fact he preferred having a secret. Most superheros felt the same way. Now, on the beach, the soft, powdery foundation was as unsteady as the old house. Jim should have already been at the shoreline, even without the deed, if that could ever make sense, but he was no longer of the same unnatural ilk. The last heel was getting smaller as the other women had disappeared behind a towering dune. Actually, it was just a tiny heap of sand randomly kicked up when the women had begun to scatter. Still, Jim had to roll over to avoid breathing it in. Could that be considered exercise, if one day the clump became a castle? He attached one of the fallen forks and angled it from the high point down to a small indentation below. Breathing heavily, he was not sure if the shiny reflection would be enough to entice a curious child to continue the construction. But at least Jim could say, the silver bridge was up to code.

Words can be a bridge–between ideas and plots, characters and places. Often times, it connects two sections of land over a body of water. Much like direct prose, the construction is not always attractive, but the footing is government issue and reliable. Safe and transitional like a walk along the shore. Even during a brief upheaval or raising, no chances are taken, at least not in a manner that will affect an outcome or subjugate a genre, no one gets left behind. Stragglers and scrutinizers have plenty of time to catch up while speedwalkers and those who are numb can finally rest. If you are bored right now, then this device is working. Once the bridge is lowered, selective interpretation becomes overwhelmingly picturesque. Without the need to buy further time, the footing is delicious and crumbling, aromatic and wet. But then again, even my mind needs a chance to recharge. So for this incarnation, just think of everything with an underscore and an asterisk. The bridge tender is safe to ignore, but one day may be the answer to a riddle.

When Jim finally angled too far away from the conversation and fell on his backside, every woman scattered wildly. A few tables were upended in the chaos, and nearly all of the plates, silverware and glasses crashed to the ground. But they were on sand and not lacking for drama, so Jim was safe and nothing was broken. Dirty yes, but the mouths that were being served were not exactly pristine. Studies had confirmed this. Human saliva was more unclean than the drool of any household pet. And while dogs and cats were the only animals acknowledged for this consideration, a return to the joy of the day’s offerings was certainly a scientific possibility. The word possibility was only thrown in to account for a panic that may or may not have been coming to a short lived end. While Jim had still been in contact with only the air, awaiting the second clause of Newton’s first law, he was already preparing to spring up as soon as he felt the first few granules of sand against his neck. At his height, and with the direction of his fall, his instincts projected this as the most likely point of impact. And then it was over, Jim was certain he no longer wanted to continue as an interruption. From such a low vantage point, the giants were restless and without organization. More than that, they needed a leader. Someone to assure the crowd, and coax them back to the tables. Even if the wooden frames remained upside down, they could use the legs the same way that a rough day used a bar, for balance and for distraction. Jim had righted himself and placed a half full glass on the square bottom, that was now a square top. Either way, he was lucky with his find, because the initial shock of the fall had dried his mouth. The women had composed themselves or they had just grown tired of yelling. All were quiet and all watched Jim. Gradually, they found their personal items which meant they were back to where they had been sitting. Since Jim had arrived late, he had been placed at the front, so now one by one, each woman passed him. They were silent except for when they wished him well. A few even brushed his arms. Not many did this , but just enough for Jim to realize it meant nothing on a personal level. Soon, they were all near the shore heading north. Jim noticed one woman looking back, and he became hopeful, just at the moment that a large clump of sand fell from his forehead, and landed in his glass. His drink fizzed and her face was gone. Jim lifted the rim to his lips and crunched the liquid in his mouth. As implausible as that seemed, what did science say about someone who was not able to properly judge a fall? As a self-appointed redeemer, he would have been better served to have rolled amidst the sand, studies show, not every group needs a leader, but even Newton would agree–everyone loves a pet.

I suppose five birds flying off, each with a french fry dangling from their beak is entertaining. Perhaps they were parrots freed from a life indoors, window sills are dusty and unfeeling. To hell with the birdseed, greasy human food, now that is really living. Yet, all I see is a napkin on the crowded ground, perfectly flat and mostly white, while speckled with ketchup and a much darker substance. Those damn seagulls and life’s inverted lessons…littering is synonymous with another day that is happening everywhere all at once. And you wonder why it is such a stretch to spit shine the sun and speak out loud of what others are thinking inside. Did you know, the best loved cats do not always have tails?

I tried my best to keep it simple, like the ex who still remembers the erotic coordinates of your favorite sin. Yet, a thesaurus can easily birth a word just as intimate, like the tight jeans gesturing for the check……before they notice you are the only one holding a pen.

The dirt was more than just a nuisance when mixed with salt and caked to a wet, sticky face. Add the pureed remnants of tree bark and predictably, the body temperature was ordered to rise, akin to a roasting charcoal, waiting to combust, while glowing red. The above described affliction found a voice that bellowed so loudly it forced a surrounding, quiet pause. The chainsaws were given a rest, as the workers were undecided whether they should react, instead they ignored the bird chirps, allowing their options to wear off, concentrating on the the next clump of trees to chop. Everyone was used to the outbursts. Yet, no one knew anything about each other. The pay was good, but did not commiserate upon the quality of chatter. There was no time for anything but the task at hand. The workers would never run for office or appear in magazines, that was for the city and its patrons; so what else should be discussed? Still, the men were not without gifts- a sharp focus that had first been identified as innate, now required as a skill-was as robotic as the intent of each saw blade, churning thru leafy sections of a disavowed portrayal and hyperbolized nuisance that no one attempted to blunt. Attention was the difference between a paycheck celebrated with a cold beer, and a poem read at a memorial wake. Mike raised his voice again. That was his name, because his homemade acoustics deemed it so. Of the same frequency and pitch to all, no matter how close or how far away the arbitrary worker was when his ears began to ring. Just as a microphone blanketed a smoky room. Amidst the dust that enveloped the west side of the road, Mike, hopefully it was obvious by now, was the short version of the analogy’s decreed persuasion. Mike saw it differently. He was not placed there by symbolism or to add color, rather, he was there due to intellect and more importantly, by choice. No third-party commentary needed, Mike’s education had not been a privilege or a right. It was just something that everybody did, at least that was Boca Raton before it waffled. Mike played sports and made friends, struck out with the ladies and routinely came back for more. He could not say that he was happy with how his life had turned out, his grades in school were a bit of a mystery. But on the sleepless nights the ceiling fan reminded him of the eternal lottery found in another sunrise. When it was too still to hide from self recrimination, the high speed setting blurred the fear of sensitivity and prepared him for future taunts. Now Mike’s chainsaw was silent, refusing to turn back on, his face painted in frustration, flailing in defiance, against the burden of the ubiquitous debris. How short lived was the marriage between fulfillment and occasion? In a few seconds the throttling buzz of the others would render him meek and without a cause. Beyond, it might find him unemployed. That was the unwavering pulse of the present day Boca Raton, and its threat of breaking another . Without the runaway pace of his blade, Mike would sink beneath the mask of the heaping residue spewing from the combustion of the city. And then a branch fell closely beside him. Had he not been in harm’s way? From now on, in the thickest part of what remained, Mike would not afford himself another distraction. He held his saw to the nearest tree, pursed his lips together and created a low vibration that rumbled as loud as humanly possible. The workers closest to Mike gave him a pre-packaged nod and a quick thumbs up. But the others who were further away, never looked over, not even with a condescending grin, they were only focused on their own machines. Mike promised that later that night he would make his mouth even tighter until he could hum over the whip that echoed from the highest setting on the fan. Skipping ahead, but not enough to destroy all plausibility, Mike felt ready to face the next day of derision, with a poetic solution, he was prepared to ask anyone who still could not hear him why he had not tried harder in math.

I had waded thru the thickest heat of the day to share all of the collected trimmings. Much was happening to the theories inside, and beyond the outskirts of my verbal disguise. Far out to sea, we were all part of a single archipelagical mansion. Am I allowed to shatter the fourth wall and force all words to kneel before me as concessionary adjectives? No matter how thirsty the ocean makes me seem, the ice cube numbs the tongue and the lemon thaws the brain. I advise…to deny all continuances, before the sky can divide or quicken. The long straw is caught off guard by a lack of priority, and tumbles across the sand in search of virtue…I care little for the abeyance and where it is leading….tomorrow we start again.

Beyond the sand, to the west, was a north-south road named A1A that hugged the coast from Florida to Maine. Key West at one tip and its reciprocating bookend, some other city in the far away north where neither Jim nor Woody had ever been. Actually, depending on the crowd and what was potentially at stake, Jim would most certainly claim he had been to every town in the Pine Tree State. That was Maine’s official nickname. Jim had come across this little tidbit when he was looking for innocuous names for future, urban developments. An element of chance, quelling Jim’s feelings of insecurity, enough for him to feel clever, and now Pine Tree Estates was in for permitting and eventually, more cash. In Boca Raton, A1A was lined with Australian Pines on the west side of the road and Sea Grapes to the east. In years past, Woody often told tourists that the pines were trees and the grapes were bushes. It could be argued that the Sea Grapes were just tall enough to make their classification less obvious and mildly entertaining. And it would be confirmed that Woody believed this made his classification mildly essential and without a partnering superlative. He was an emissary lacking the support of his supervisors, at least until the visitors made it to the water’s edge. Today, the road was home to a loud noise that was not attributed to traffic or construction. Both Jim and Woody heard it, and for different reasons, they flinched initially, but did not seem interested in welcoming the visual that was lagging just behind. Jim acknowledged the noise as procedural, ceremonial if there had been cameras and he was the one cutting the red tape. Woody realized he was one step closer to becoming obsolete, which was borderline already. Chainsaws were everywhere, too many for the eyes to ignore, along with workers dodging falling limbs. Jim and Woody had at least one thing in common, secretly, they hoped that the snapped wood from high above, would eventually outwit a two legged miscreant down below and register a direct hit. It was always easier to accept a calamity by viewing the recipient as deserving. Besides, Woody knew first aid. But no amount of CPR would save the Australian Pines. They were non native, and all out war was not only justified, but required against invaders, especially those with foliage so thin that they were referred to as needles. Looking skyward, their canopy resembled nothing more than a set of cheap blinds. Woody likened it to setting the air conditioning at 68 and then waking up hot and stuck to the bed. That was always good for at least one nervous laugh. However, Woody also knew that nothing would ever take the tall tree’s place, figuratively, for these pines could reach majestic, supernatural heights, north of 120 feet. Literally, he knew that new development always came with unobstructed views-more eyes meant more exposure. More exposure meant more judgement, more judgement meant soft hints would give way to harsh requirements, especially when it came to retirement, and the debate of whether it should be voluntary or forced. Jim was elated, his latest project must have been approved. But he was concerned, for Jim did not recall any concept that had called for removing pine trees. Right or wrong, these landmarks had dotted the coast for generations. Despite another victory for his way of life, Jim fretted over this development’s cost to his already frayed public perception. More specifically, what would he talk about the next time A1A was brought up? Even Woody, had been to Key West.

Biddy owed all around town. And not necessarily money. She had faced challenges her entire life. No more so than in the last few years. She was getting older and her looks were struggling to keep the pace with her impromptu ploys and immature whit. There was always a risk to playing the damsel. Distress was actually a heavy effect. Biddy was growing tired of carrying the weight. Still, it was so very necessary. If she was ever to be fully believed, then staying in character would have to become code for looking in the mirror, and being okay with what she would always see. Biddy liked cold beverages. That was at the bottom of the totem pole due to how quickly the glass grew warm when just as quickly, it was emptied. Biddy liked purses, especially the ones that were waving while her arms remained close to her sides. She believed that the giant logos of the fashion houses that ordained the shouldered fabric were at there best, flirting finger tips and at worst, a sophistication that was impossible to ignore. Yet, neither interpretation was steadfast in love or better yet, enduring attention. So, Biddy bounced around, from target to target, all the while, cursing the streaks on the mirror. Maybe her only problem was that she needed cleaning help. That would require a different type of self pity, one with a newness that would make it difficult to pile on her father who left when Biddy was twelve. They had reconnected for a few years when she was in her early 20’s, right around the time she was in a healthy relationship. Her friends called it that because there were actually dates, preset meetings where both parties agreed and showed up. Last week, while moaning from her balcony, as a pack of joggers lurched and grunted, straddling the curb and the street far below, Biddy had added the word ‘healthy’ to her relationship. It had been a long time coming and suddenly, she was not even sure the joggers were jogging. They may have been stretching or begging for spare change. She had thought about tossing an old pair of shoes. But they had once belonged to pair of apologetic brown eyes, with a well-cropped 5’o clock shadow. Besides, even poor people deserved to be to in style, and shoes could make or break a person’s fashion sense. Biddy had a good heart, she cared too much, and deserved all the attention she could get. Woody seemed knowledgeable and kind, but he was old and his entire body was worn and lined. Biddy smiled at Woody with a healthy affection, he reminded her that he was overdue, and she needed a new leather handbag.

Jim grew restless as the conversation he was not a part of shifted from random gossip to the best place for brunch. Clearly, the ladies were content with getting in their own way. Initially, he was interested, but could not show it, for fear of being excommunicated from the table. No one had set any ground rules for him, Jim could just tell that this was a very delicate situation. He was a guest in his native town. In fact, he was positive that he had lost a shovel around here. It was plastic and at this moment, Jim was directly in front of Tower 22. He confirmed that this was the same location. The two palms that blocked the pavement of the road, behind the tower where still bent and pointing to the left. In one of the day’s oddities, this beach looked exactly the same as it did when he was a child. Jim realized he was surprised, because he often defaulted to the mindset of someone who was constantly looking to evoke change through redevelopment. There was really no reason for the prefix in front of development. Jim was not making any positive adjustments despite what his presentations to the city’s planning commission had conveyed. As a developer, the ‘de’ could have just as easily been attached to the letters ‘struction’. That would have been more apropos and honest. Jim had always struggled with being honest. Remember he was the creative one, which should have been amended to cretin. But that was Woody’s voice. Why did Jim have to hear that? All of this was streaming rapidly from the back of Jim’s brain to the front. Yet, his cognitive receptors were getting the point. He was hungry and his career path was not without privilege. Jim had dined in the best restaurants that coastal Florida had to offer. He readied himself to speak, because his experiences extended in all directions, beyond Boca Raton and the county of Palm Beach. The women were discussing politicians, athletes and actors, and where they could be found. Or more importantly, where they themselves, could be seen. Perhaps, Jim’s mind was not as quick as it often seemed. Maybe menus had never been discussed, maybe none of the ladies had ever looked his way. Maybe he had lost his shovel in front of Tower 21. That last query was the one he liked best. Jim stood up and removed himself from the conversation. And then a lady grabbed his wrist and asked him to stay. This time the prefix ‘re’ was not creative enough, this time Jim had gotten in his own way.