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.