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.

The two ladies were named Elizabeth and Beth, respectively. Both were short, both were round. They were not originally from Boca Raton, they had moved down from someplace up north. The ladies were not residents, but were now residing in one of the new apartments downtown. They did not live together, and from their tiny balconies, they could see where the city turned into a blue, wet motion. It was enough of an experience to entice them down from the 44th floor, or the Junior Penthouse if one cared to indulge their sense of entitlement. Elizabeth and Beth, respectively, were adamant, emphatic and persistent. The last adjective was Woody’s contribution to the current description. Being eager, was certainly forgivable, even if the ladies had not amended the sharpness from their first impressions. But if one was keeping score, the cadence of their conversational voices was tolerable, containing clear enunciation and actual sentence structure. It was apparent to Woody, and to anything else that was listening, that these ladies were educated and came from prestigious genes, which was why their calves were purple and swollen. The sand was hot and the breeze was out of refrigerant. Woody assured them that a repair man was on his way. That was his second contribution. Actually, it was the ladies who were keeping score. Woody did not share the following thought– would they be insulted if he asked to think of them as one? Of course, the condo building could use another elevator and the tea room only seated five, but this blue was so much bigger from the ground floor. Elizabeth and Beth, respectively, had been told by the developer that he was always on the look out for more land. They both wondered if their building had plans to expand closer to the blue. Compared to the gentle, rolling waves, that was Woody’s third contribution, in his mind, colors should only be used a certain way. Ocean, sea, water-the ladies apologized for the use of blue and their malapropism. At last, they were speaking in a lower tone. Elizabeth and Beth, respectively, were wilting in the heat. Even though one rubbed the back of her legs and one did not, both sets of calves were still purple. Woody decided, unilaterally, from now on Elizabeth and Beth would exist as a singular entity known as Biddy and they would remain round. Woody always liked the word plump, but felt he should save that title for someone who was obligated to pay the city taxes. He wondered if the man had made it to an actual beach. That was a ponderance, a consequence which he knew existed far above the level of the genes that guided him. Woody promised to politely decline any future invitations that found him in Biddy’s home. For on a balcony above the height of the ground, Woody would have nothing he could contribute–other than his distrust of downtown and his disdain for those who did not live near the blue or technically resided in the city.

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.

Sitting in the chair, rocking heavily on the back legs, Jim could feel the sand giving way under his shifting weight. With each movement, as he pushed further away from the women, Jim noticed the edge of the table growing in stature. Initially, his stomach was hidden below a resting fork and empty plate. He was sure they were just for decoration, for the surrounding conversation never discussed food or the fact that they were all being made to wait. But the glasses were filled high, with an assortment of liquefied grapes-reds, whites, purples and the occasional yellow, which was apocryphally a white that was taking in a bit too much sun. Jim had two brothers. They would always be athletic, handsome and driven. At an early age, they made Jim hate the beach. He had no idea why he was wandering, giving them a point of reference, maybe it was because in present time, he had yet to find a word or a statement that could elicit a smile, or steer a voice in his direction. Jim’s mother was not a patient woman, so the ocean offered an alternative to her crying in the closet while her three boisterous kids disrupted every aspect of her day. He could still see her thin outline, sitting at an elevated point on the sand, the sea and even it’s shore were always doing their work down below. Jim was the most creative, especially when it came to excuses. On the day he was recalling, Jim was constructing a barrier of packed sand that could harness the power of the sun, and use its warm reflection to lure shells while keeping the nosiness of the water at bay. Innovation made him too busy to swim. As the current cycle dictated another forward lean, Jim was back amongst the women, but at least the other glasses were still accurately depicted as being completely full. One of the women smiled, reaching over she grabbed his twitching knee. Jim was sure she was annoyed by his swinging chair. Still, he was prepared to make good on his extroverted wish. Her smooth, bony fingers resembled a doll’s plastic, miniature hands, and yet Jim felt jabbed and sore. He had not considered the spectacle of his cause, recycling a deepening imprint, forcing a recurrence that left him stationary and stumped. Jim began to lament wanting any part of a crafty dialogue or inventing a friendly stare. His eye line was now well below his empty, uneven crystal stem . This time he purposely thought about his two brothers and decided a Vin jaune would absorb the vision of his mother, a welcomed theory, lured inside the trappings–of the limpid, colorless glass. Creativity could never be nostaligic while stationary…even if a jerky motion could be seen as a barrier to all that could be harnessed from being either spurious or young.

Everyone has been burdened with a destination at one time or another, so Jim decided to skip ahead. He strolled between ivory colored tables and chairs, that were wooden, handcrafted and overly ripe. Jim understood this world. It was a time of great excess and little concern for sustainable cost or corrigible responsibility. The women cackled and winked, feigning interest in keeping their hair tightly wrapped, while doing little to hide their recent highlights from their companions or the wind. The men were, apparently, nowhere to be found. Surveying his surroundings, Jim hummed rather loudly, even with the waves breaking, neither sound was enough to smother the gossip or all that was pretend. Jim hated being home. It was both figurative and reassuring. He had long looked for an opportunity to become more consistent in happiness and fulfillment. Yet amongst the women, it was cozy, as if his living room could infinitely extend. The stretch of sand was long and different mile markers yielded a variety of named beaches. Each with a different set of principles and tradition. Jim could always venture on and if nothing was appealing, circle back. But by then, the tables and chairs would be chipped, faded and warped. Someone had gone to great lengths and probably great pains to intricately craft the woodwork. Like Jim, the furniture was meant for the predictability and safety of an interior realm. Maybe, neither were designed to last much longer. It took awhile for Jim to realize that he was no longer humming and the ocean was perfectly flat. He found an empty seat and sat inside one of the familiar communities. Secretly, he hoped the women would eventually get around to telling him that being completely miserable could be wonderfully consistent. But their hair was now frizzy and saturated with salty air. They turned and asked Jim if he knew of a lifeguard named Woody. Jim cackled, winked and chipped a few pieces of wood from his chair. He had not skipped far enough ahead, but at least this was not his destination.

After an eternity had methodically passed, Jim grew tired of feigning confidence while straining to keep his insecurity safely hidden from Woody . In actuality, he had stumbled from the tidal pool only a few seconds ago, just as a peripheral movement was lifting in a blur and then returning quickly towards the perpetuity of the ground. The act had occurred well beyond the bushes that hugged the road, and Jim’s neck was sore from the misstep-as was his pride- so he gave the matter no further attention. No one had responded to Jim as he composed himself and stood, waiting motionless along the shore. Maybe, he had been too convincing, the sand was golden and the sky was blue. People were expected to be fumbling at the water’s edge, just as beach goers were bound to have an occasional question. He took a few steps to the right and headed South, from where the women had come. Clearly, this felt like a good decision. It mattered little that he would be unable to hear any of the conversation between Woody and the women. They had to be so beautiful, after all, it was the beach, soon there would be no more talking. In a strange way, he actually felt happy for Woody. One day, hopefully in the future, when Jim was bobbing in the sea, riding the crests of the grandest of waves, Woody would envy him as well. Jim veered into the cool liquid and immediately noticed the foam wrapping around his ankles. He even sat down for a second or two, yet with all of the adoration that awaited, he did not want to rush things or risk being seen as overzealous. He was now half a sand dune away from where he had left the remnants of his initial plans. Rough drafts were part of any process, and their embarrassing results were easily forgiven. Jim lifted his head and began to walk in an actual direction, his steps were straight and completely dry. There were beach towels and umbrellas that had to be waiting. He slapped his lips together and thought about his rewrite. Next time, he promised to make the women less awful.

The women, and I use that term loosely, continued their approach towards Woody. In case you were wondering, physical attributes mattered little to me, I judged people on their intentions. And while that meant that I was not always able to speak-conclusively-on behalf of what I saw, my memory bank made sure that I learned from my experiences and never needed a lesson to be repeated. As I was saying, these “women” were closing in, now in a circular vicinity of the lifeguard. I was becoming comfortable interchanging the words Woody and lifeguard once again. For awhile there, I was not sure if either should be considered names, descriptions or synonyms for remorse. So, one woman, if I was okay with oscilating options for the recurring entity who made imperfect sense, I would have to extend that same courtesy to that which was unknown. But, if I was judging based upon intentions, and not on outward appearance, would that not signal that what I was seeing was in fact, familiar and understood? Perhaps this brief, yet very necessary distraction, was how Woody came to find himself stretched, as one of the uglies was suddenly in front, and to his left, while the other nasty was behind him, and to his right. I paused for a split second, because I thought I heard a noise that sounded like a tape being rewound, but it was just a terse slapping between two hurrying waves. Predictably, the parties to the natural world were quick to reach a binding agreement. WIth the seas restored to a full calm, I could retrieve my focus. Now, I was unsure if my mind was readying to make a suggestion or a “nasty” remark. And then, I caught myself flailing, an objecting breeze making sure I saw my sides lifting high, separating from my cowering skin. Had I been doing this all along, making quotations in the air, or was a third party pleading with me to refrain from constructing labels birthed by materials that had spoiled, were outdated, or worse yet, unadvanced ? Still, I made sure to keep my eyes on what was transpiring, a few hundred yards closer to the shore. The woman in front of “Woody” was pulling hard on a leather strap, while the woman to the rear of the “lifeguard” was fumbling with a metal clasp. I thought I saw everyone’s lips beginning to slap…but I had come to realize…that was the sound that a tape makes when the ribbon is becoming twisted…and its lessons are no longer intact.

A footnote to history….”all that appears in the construct of a lifetime…this version… or better yet…this grip… is colored by what amounts to…the most incidental of all contact…aversion is a pressure that at times is miscatalogued as delicate instead of defunct…just as insight is a preordained fate…unequivocally held back…by faded blankets and the gentlest of tugs.”

And then…at the beach… the ” ______” was confused…for everyone had their own assistance. Kudos to those subjects… who erroneously offered up a “raisin.” Indiscretion is that simplistic…and not surprisingly…always eager to observe.