Commitment is not won over by the trembling of an enigmatic handshake. Firm or flimsy, all is nonchalant and casual, initially, shelter is offered on a trial basis only. The terms become reciprocal as the ideas shed instantaneous demands, instead growing codependent, roped in by a modified forward lean, a perfect symmetry with the temptatious dawn of the oncoming pink waves. Mike was still across the road taking inventory, even at the base of the last remaining tree, he was perched above the ocean, which by now was familiar, scurrying at the bottom of the sea grape covered hill. This was more reminder than revelation, but commitment is predicated on redundancy. To his right, Mike could see Jim, and to his left he could see Woody, two points at the respective ends of a panoramic map. The crumbles of dirt and and shavings of wood mixed with Mike’s sweat to form a skin tight, layered paste. Mike had felt just as snug on top of a towel, under a blanket, imagining the wind whistling between his knees. This is how he would have his day in the shade. Instead, he made Jim the purveyor, Woody the brave one. The pair of legs that scissored through the lowest reaches of the sky was not worth a further dissection. Perhaps, the sand understood that he was watching, and perhaps both Jim and Woody realized that Mike already knew them. It would take a long and reclusive set of steps over the bedded needles and sharp pine cones before Mike could determine if he should continue with only the callouses on his feet apologizing for the delineation. Commitment did not require an accurate timeline, so just know that Mike had been in uniform with his saw, but was now in shorts and nothing else. Woody was smiling as if a restaurateur, readying to greet his favorite diners who had left him every time the competition unleashed another unseasoned trend. The metal beach chairs had been placed in unison with the backdrop of the wooden lifeguard stand. Woody stood motionless, which meant the layout had been decided upon long ago. Maybe the chairs had never been put away, but so went the timeline, and Woody knew where he was heading, which was why he waited patiently for the extras to show. Jim was racing between groups, as if he had the most girl scout cookies to sell. No one was small enough to be microscopic, still with the distance, Mike assigned pale shades and dark whiskers to all who were not bent over looking for shells, of course this had to be a group that was born from the same mushy clay, the plasticity determined whether one could roll their tongue, or how many digits would comprise a lucky number. The occasional car was nothing more than the harmless uncertainty, flaunted by a compliant streaker, as Mike nervously stretched until he was limber, cracking his neck in the middle of the street. The first interruption had swerved, spun out and then continued on in its preferred direction. But what if that trip was supposed to have been down the hill that leads to the ocean? Through the thicket of sea grapes, and the engulfing sand, between Woody and Jim, the unspecified legs were still housed in a haphazard motion, everything on the beach, linked to a rattling chain that was either gifted or cursed with an open ended set of links. Jumping ahead, Mike realized that a linear engagement, no matter how limited the impressionable might be, would have to be measured by more than beach chairs and desperate jogging. From the asphalt, the skin down below was more accurately sighted, now bronzed with the occasional patch of white fur. Mike decided his set of temporal recordings should be tied to the bottoms of his bleeding feet– raw flesh and approaching waves were more of a subjective hue than the levels of nerves that determined the future of what a greeting might pave, especially if the preferred alliance could yield a tangible absurdity, inside an endless supply of thin mints– with whatever was customary for a boxed shelter to convey.

The black keys of the piano hung in the thick air, wrestling with the fluttering salt and looping mist. All wanted to be influential, even if sound had the edge over texture and a recurring itch. Back then, there was dancing and sophistication, and the city was carefully placed in the crib of a napping infancy. Woody stood at the bar, stripes of sand haphazardly running across his back, a few last strands of seaweed being brushed away from the bottom of his chest. He signaled for two beers and smiled at the delicate fingers that were making him presentable. The ballroom was full and while most silhouettes were wrapped in black ties or shimmering pearls, there were plenty who were bare chested and tan enough to pass for modeling tribal wear. It had been a good day for Woody, his earlier rescue was more enthralling than the gains of the stock market, the new rail line and the plans for the first tall building– combined. Later, after dehydration had ended his courtship with the bottle, Woody promised to appear at the ribbon cutting ceremony for the hotel whose foundation they were presently imbibing under. It would be tomorrow, and although he would be coming directly from work, the occasion would provide another springboard for his trademark joke. In a blur, Woody was being whisked towards the dance floor, pulled in such a direct manner that his flip flops shed his feet, firing backwards in quick succession. Woody had been in this situation before and feigned being humble and embarrassed. Truth was, he had been waiting most of the night for a chance to be passed around, among the party elites, being on loan from the adjoining seabed, Woody knew that the working man was a limited fascination that could be canceled at any time. His edges were not jagged, still , they were not rounded enough to possess a civilized, secondary interest or unearth a seeded acumen after his trunks had begun to dry, yet while mimicking the vibrations of the orchestra, he was that special type of rudderless visitor whose path would uncomfortably approach, but never come close enough for his presumption to overstay. Case in point, Woody had inhaled two beers when he arrived, and then one for every question concerning the relationship between sea foam and panic. That made a perfect ten, and now his hopping right heal and sliding left toes were perfectly fueled for the night’s culminating ritual of solitary escape. Beyond the alleged-suspended judgments of the watching celebration, the freckled skin and sticky hair blatantly belonged to a caste that still needed to eyeball the ground to make sure that one’s lower half was keeping up with the choreography that emanated from the brain. Even as his missteps were shuttered by whistles and applause, he still caught a splinter, and as the wood penetrated a familiar, unhealing blister, Woody switched to a one legged balance, so that a new set of fingers could add a touch of elegance to the sore, first made famous by the common pioneer. The bandleader was either a fan or an opportunist, ad-libbing a piano solo, until Woody flashed an ‘ok’ with the both thumbs and forefingers. As Woody stood, a well dressed man feigned picking up the splinter and caressing it . In an instant, everything went silent, except for the twang of the black keys, that lingered in the air like an insecure echo. Woody remembered the punchline to his joke, and even if the current situation offered a better setup, he simply smiled and blew a kiss. Back on the beach, Woody had been versatile enough after all, keeping his aura from cycling inside a slab of concrete, and his destiny from being fastened to the health of the now decaying hotel. As the others set off in search of lands that were temporarily more festive and noble, it would most certainly be humorous upon their return, for even dotted in a wardrobe of sand and seaweed , Woody would still have nothing to wear.

Woody watched as Biddy dropped to her knees and quickly disappeared under a tiny mound of earth. Every once in a while, a large clump curved upwards and unpacked against the sky before arching back down towards a fractured, brown charicture of unlaid plans and overinflated worth. Woody’s hairline was grazed, repeatedly, but he was not positioned close enough to share in an imagined competition. The spectacle resembled that of a baby bird, flapping his wings but not understanding what it meant to actually fly. Woody was *entertained and annoyed* and wanted to be back at home. For years, being flummoxed would have meant that he was prone and hidden against the ocean’s soft, mushy floor. As long as he promised not to trap any air, the depths would never return him or fail to keep his opinions safe. How ironic, a lifeguard, assigning human conditions to a place that had continued to retreat in order to prevent manmade harm from desecrating its provision. Lately, nostalgia made the old man buoyant. So Woody just stood there on the shore, bloated, and looked out for a *memory* that he could still work with. It was not a time for forebodance or any other literary device that mirrored what he was feeling inside. At this moment, Woody was a *compassionate swindler*, and the term was actually ‘foreboding’, that was why the water was a calm reflection of the sun, and was staged in tranquil blues and unrepentant greens, these revelations fought over whether they should throw him back towards the others or keep him as part of a running gag. Woody, was highlighted in their notes, and he stared until his eyes grew tight and fuzzy, all of youth lost inside a headache and the hologram of the sides of his nose. The rays from above provided the radiation which reduced his purpose to that of a hesitant interference, much like a lukewarm ensemble of hors d’oeuvres. It was enough to free himself from a vision that was overdue for being reconditioned, he walked a bit to the South, the water, that he did not realize he had been standing in felt *refreshing* and brought him back to a tingling in his knees. But no one else was in the water and aside from Biddy’s ankles, nothing was on the beach. Woody remembered that Jim had once been here as well, and that pulverized bark had occasionally interrupted his breathing. With nothing else to do, he kissed his hand and reciprocated by vertically stroking the right side of his neck. A family would be ill advised, as he apologized for being *intimate* while working late. The mother of the boys he had rescued so long ago, understood the importance of *punctuality* and now Woody was ashamed for never again calling them his *friends*. “I guess we all grow tired of waiting,” Maybe if he had been less concerned about *chipping paint and infringement* he would be down the beach with Jim. He knew little about Jim, and before today had never seen him, or was Woody searching for an option that was fluid, instead of a man that was garnished with a late blooming tuft of *mold*? In one of the more *desperate* attempts at satire, Woody leaned over until his chest was pushing down firmly on the undersides of Biddy’s feet. He was not sure about her abilities to fold his trunks or prepare his dinner, but the way she squirmed and shouted, “Uncle, Uncle!” he was touched that she already thought of him as family. Age offers little by way of sympathy, when the essence of being *disingenuous* fits better with a wrinkle smoothing the surface of affectation, than a wave that is only rumbling because its time has abruptly run out at the shore.

Biddy was ephemeral, and that was why she bobbed up and down like a top in the water. She had been lonely as a toddler and roughed up as a child, she was suspicious of a family friend, later in life, she was relieved to find out the man was actually an uncle. Biddy laughed every time she told the story, unable to understand why the listener suddenly asked her about work or ordered another round. Now on the beach, the wind was lifting Biddy’s hair, checking for unmapped points of reference. She hoped a modest level of scrutiny would always be guaranteed. Hope, Biddy had kept her imagination childlike and her illumination flickering, when many times it would have been more humane if the partnership had lied about being needed amongst a crop of facial stubble, and promising to return with the harvest from another worshiping fan. She could still do a handstand and all of its fancy variations. Recently, Biddy had found that first digging a hole in the sand would allow her head to separate from her neck, once she was vertical and upside down. That would make her lovable, she could even accept ‘cute,’ although if observations were traveling the back roads, Biddy preferred to be called ‘adorable.’ She giggled in the cool darkness, blowing outward to clear away intruding pellets of white dirt. That was how they had built up the unnatural dunes. Biddy assumed that Woody knew that. So now, she would have to as well. She giggled again, this was going to be fun. As the blood was beginning to make its way to the base of her skull, the tingling sensation associated itself with breaking Woody’s heart. It was as powerful as it was to hope, the two of them sitting distinctively apart, on her couch, him commenting on how pretty she looked, Biddy genuinely interested rubbing his arm, before telling him that he had to go. But she would find him tomorrow and the next day, mirroring everything that Woody had wanted for his life. Her head was pulsating, as she felt the others sitting on the beach, in the light, full of distraction, they had to be attaching themselves to her body. Now she saw Woody, who was angry. She was euphoric and in love. Not with him, but with what was warranted. Her braided hair, just the way Woody had preferred, the lifeguard massaging her feet, haggling for a life to share. And then she was upright once again, as her purple face acquiesced, splitting all that pooled, begrudgingly with the rest of her body that was pale. In real time, Woody was picking his feet as he sat on the bottom rung of his stand. He was clothed only in his red trunks. Biddy wondered if next time she could hold her position a little longer, at least until Woody was in a tuxedo and his beard was well kept. She laughed the hardest when she thought about her Uncle, and wondered if they had actually ever met.

As the midday sun ceded the sky to the showers of late afternoon, Mike and the rest of the crew finished up on the penultimate tree. It was not as big as the others they had cut down, but it was thick and stubborn, and uncharacteristically dry, and guarded by several offshoots that resembled overgrown, leafy plants. To Mike, it resembled a family and their removal affected him in a way that he had previously warned himself about: feeling too deeply for all that was perceived to be slipping through the cracks. And whether it was a shiny toy pleading for applause at the bottom of a storm drain or a sulking man on a park bench as the schedule would not allow the bus to stop, Mike took on the responsibility of a witness, who felt the pain, but locked up when it was time to act. Lately, he thought about this incessantly, enslaved by an emotional tic, especially when the observations were still fresh and new, and then when the clarity of the images began to wane, contemplation still refused to recede, the blurry residue manifesting itself in feelings that never became stale or wandered off. It was as if experience was being rolled like a giant ball of dough, all of the ingredients mashed together until they became a collective, but without the boundaries of a community. Anyone who had a young family of their own, would be surprised at the similarities they shared with Mike, particularly when it came to fighting off exhaustion from expectation and carrying the weight of dependents all alone. Yet, Mike could never really relate to anyone, when it came to the churning he felt inside. It was home for him, but even the above mentioned reference to the sole provider was not refined enough to roll out. So he chopped and he cut and wore the scars of the trees across his arms and his face. Sweat was designed to keep the body cool, so why did it sting his eyes with intense heat whenever he tried to focus on all that he was supposed to rout? Or was that the spatter of warring blood, blocking the wooden splinters that represented a final surrender? Then it rained and Mike along with the rest of the crew were ordered to power off. It should have been a relief, much could happen overnight, maybe a councilman or a developer would have a dream so vivid that they could renege on their promise to help the city grow. But this was Florida and the showers would be over quick. Mike stared at the last tree that remained. It was in an area that had been previously hidden and inaccessible. Now it was free to fulfill its purpose-or waiting-to mercifully pass away. The sun was peaking through, which reflected brightly on Mike’s wet blade. The freshly, cleaned rivets would make the job easier. Mike wrestled with everything else in between. Ultimately, he had grown accustomed to an arbitrary world encompassed by swirling debris. A few more storms and the bus would be compelled to slow for all who were downtrodden and the grate would be flooded, lifting the toy safely above the drain. Mike would remain behind, in case the offshoot was capable of producing grapes.

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.