There was so much varying noise emanating from the two ladies, that Woody could barely ascribe an applicative adjective. If he had been a writer, at least ten mature trees worth of printed paper would already have been thrown away. He welcomed the beach goers, it was good for city business, and that meant longevity still had a place in Woody’s limited vocabulary. Now scanning, from left to right, across the ocean, Woody hoped that this purposeful motion overtly communicated that he knew what he was doing, which meant he could be busy with his craft. It was true that no one was in the water. And even if that was not the case, the sea was completely flat. Unfortunately, the obvious never blended well with being dramatic. Case in point, both ladies were still talking, not to each other, not to Woody either. If only a plausible reality still existed. Woody wondered if he no longer had something genuine to formulate and to share. He had never been much of a citizen when it came to engaging others, while at the same time, ignoring everything that they seemed to want. Woody knew what he could politely prove, his current territory consisted of a rusted whistle, faded swim trunks and a rotted wooden stand. He needed people to make his place a beach again, and remembered the man who had been at the water’s edge. Instinct had a cruel way of trumping distraction. Woody quickly realized that the man’s disappearance coincided with the ladies arrival. In a moment, Woody was sprinting towards the shore. With each jarring step, Woody’s eyelids fluttered, just as his teeth vibrated and their upper and lower rows began to clash. Yet, the water grew even more calm as Woody’s feet passed the last fragments of solid ground. The sand had now turned to a bumpy slush as he felt the first few droplets of the oncoming, wet splash. How ironic, everything in front of Woody was now perfectly clear. The ocean was still flat, and Woody could see all the way to the smooth, tan bottom. He thought he saw an outstretched arm and then a curling hand, but it was just a few small, darting bluegills. Woody nervously re-tied his trunks, making the elastic uncomfortably tight, past transgression had long been the best advisor for contemporary punishment, this time, it was due to a lack of introspection and for being too conservative–there were not enough fish to even make a school. His sense of evenness had no plausible excuse with which it could partner and hide. And then there was sobbing and laughter, it was close enough to register, but still far enough away to give Woody a few more seconds to pantomime. He backed up until he was forced to re-acknowledge the tracks that had trailed the man along the shore. He he had lost a beach goer and a beach in the worst possible way: without a simple retort or an ounce of factual persuasion. He muttered as he trudged away from the water until the sand was a soft, dry powder. Yet, his audience clapped and Woody waved. Perhaps if the ladies could overlook the obvious, Woody could be dramatic enough to loosen his aspirations. It had to be so, for there was nothing else that he could prove, and there would never be enough bluegills or paper.