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.
