 
# Figures on a Beach

A Novel

Copyright © 2014 Elm Books  
Smashwords Edition

Kirk VanDyke

Cover art by Virginia Cantarella

ELM BOOKS, 2014

Laramie, Wyoming
_Figures on a Beach_ by Kirk VanDyke

First Edition Copyright © 2008 by Kirk VanDyke

ISBN: 978-0-9844074-0-8

Second Edition Copyright © 2014 Elm Books

Smashwords Edition

Paperback ISBN: 978-1-941614-00-6

E-Format ISBN: 978-1-941614-01-3

Elm Books

1175 State Highway 130

Laramie, WY 82070

(http://elm-books.com)

Cover art by Virginia Cantarella

(http://www.virginiacantarella.com/index.html)

Proofreading by A.S. Knight

Formatting by BB eBooks

(http://bbebooksthailand.com)

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This book may not be reproduced or retransmitted in any form in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, with the exception of brief quotations for book reviews or critical works. Thank you for respecting the creative products of the contributors to this volume.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, or actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

## Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Prologue

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

About the Author
for:

_Trichophyton_ sp., _tinea pedis_ ,

dopamine and serotonin

## Prologue

Animal species don't tend to abandon a home with known food supplies and comforts for an unknown range without these necessities, that is unless they have a neurological disease or they feel threatened. Humans, the most complex and complicated of the social species, are the same way. If given a known, stable haven, we will not leave, but rather nest naturally within a home range.

In modern society, people tend to migrate (whether on foot, by car, or by plane) only for perceived survival. Sure, there is the general intellectual curiosity of what's on the other side, but movement tends to take place within certain known factors: school, job, family, friends, natural disasters or weather patterns. We try to create some kind of security with these movements. Even adventurers and explorers have a home base, regular paycheck, or something like that to return to.

But sometimes a person simply runs, abandons comforts, for the unknown. This tends to stem from either neurological complications or a perceived threat, or both. When the perceived threat is in the present, such movement is rational, is very understandable. But when the perceived threat is a past one that somehow influences a present decision, well, that falls back into a neurological condition. If the psyche is experiencing paranoia of past, creating a fight-or-flight hormonal and neurotransmitter response in the present, we have yet another form of insanity.

This is how I left the South, how I hit the road in a rather unprepared and unpredictable way, and ended up in lands devoid of many people. The frightening thing about a human being, though, is that I was able to rationalize the irrational, not only to myself but to others. And this is why we are so terrified of insanity in our society, and fascinated by it. Insanity is by definition, unpredictable. Prisons are filled with millions of predictable offenders, but the criminally insane are who scare us most. And fascinate us the most. A continually erratic person is predictable, and usually avoided, based on a known pattern of behavior. But the person who convincingly moves in one direction for 95% of the time, only to radically switch course for that other 5%—that person is of concern.

I am that person, though my irrationality has largely been confined to a self-inflicted economic or career demise. To some, especially to those I can't debate face-to-face, this 5% is glaringly obvious. But to others, oh, there is a complete ability to twist, to intellectualize the irrational. And it is this reason, this distrust of myself and, therefore, of others that makes me trust other animals, even insects, more than humans. An insect, even a cannibalistic or disease-ridden one, is predictable. A human is not.

Going back to grade school, to those basic math skills that society tends to forget after the school door is locked for the night, 5% can become a deceptively large amount of time. A very basic computation reveals that the day is composed of 1,440 minutes, and that 5% of it is 72 minutes. Over the course of an entire week, that's 504 minutes, which is 8.4 hours. In other words, how would people treat you if you acted erratic the entire work day Monday one week, Tuesday the next, and on down the calendar, until you plopped yourself in the protestant pew on another random week and talked to the voices coming from stain glass windows?

Now, if an average person maybe acts a bit neurotic for an hour a day, well, they're considered a bit of a freak. They might be tolerated, but they will probably also be avoided to some degree. They won't be the most popular one at the company Christmas party. Our society is obsessed with projecting a positive image, even if that image is false or shallow. The rest of the world might laugh at or be appalled at us, be we're in love with ourselves and, frankly, they're fascinated with the dynamic. Business schools and churches are filled with positive images. The military thrives on it. But who's positive 100% of the time? I read the New Testament several times over the course of a decade and it's filled with negative imagery and projections. And that's nothing compared to the Old Testament, so even the Bible isn't trying to be positive or predictable 100% of the time. And our tabloids are filled with this 5% regarding the behavior of our royalty—the actors and actresses, the rock and country stars, and the sports figures. Sorry, politicians, society expects that 5% from you, so it's actually somewhat predictable.

Now back to the 5% argument and the church pew disruptions. Let's make that 5% hallucinatory, such as talking to voices coming from stain glass windows. Hallucinations are the mind adding to the perceived reality and distorting it, at least according to others around me. Hallucinations, even 5% of the time, are unpredictable. Many people in our society have consumed numerous substances to simply create such a state for themselves, some hoping it will help them to commune with God better, to break the rational predictability in life. But millions of people, like me, have those hallucinations naturally. The only problem is that the natural hallucinations don't stop when some ingested drug loses its potency. You can't simply turn them off and then function within the boundaries of the workforce again, at least not without some difficulty. Solid, professional or craftsmen jobs tend to have little tolerance of such unpredictable behavior. And when jobs are scarce, even unskilled labor positions are in demand enough to create a workplace that is completely intolerant of erratic behavior.

So, 5% of the time can eventually lead to condemnation. 5% of the time can lead to confinement. 5% of the time can lead to homelessness and difficulty in employment.

In the sciences, fact is published as 95% certain that what we see or claim is not by chance. That's what we call fact in our society. Even the sciences leave 5% for chance, for mistaken reality.

My name is John Jones.

## I

(i)

"Can I help you?"

"Yeah, well, I was wondering if there was anyone, you know, to talk to about a job. I mean, I'm looking for work and was wondering if you were hiring. Are you? I mean, do you need anyone?"

"Well, the person to talk to isn't here right now, but you can probably catch him tomorrow. He'll definitely be here tomorrow."

"Around what time?"

"Oh, any time I think."

"And his name?"

"Jason, his name is Jason."

"And your name is?"

"Cindy."

"Glad to meet you Cindy... My name is John Jones... Thanks for the help."

I leave the building and cross the main street on the island. I amble, first down the main street and then down a smaller road leading to the beach. It is gray and drizzling and has been for days. The temperatures are cool and the breeze is cold. Everything seems so depressed—the dunes, the grasses, the birds and rabbits. I doubt that they really are depressed. How can grasses be depressed? But somehow the cold, damp feeling that pervades my body and mind has painted the landscape in dull shades of brown and gray. Every other living thing must surely want to crawl into a home and hide until the sun returns. My home, my precious home, is damp and filled with sand. The beach has invaded my living space and there is nothing I can do about it but accept that I am now part of the beach. I am as much a part of the beach as the gulls and pelicans, the trash and the tar balls.

Coyotes! I would like to think of myself as kin to the coyote. Sometimes they will lure a camper's pet into the dunes and then play a deadly tag team assault on the dumb, spoiled pet. End of pet. I could use some of that planned ambition. Maybe if I had a little I could find a job.

"Find a job, exactly! You've really done it this time. You are going to end up stuck on this beach without any hope of getting off. Who's gonna hire a hippie living in a van? What kind of job are you possibly going to get?" Ben has this way of showing up without being properly invited and his comments are usually belittling and invariably pessimistic.

I really can't stand the pompous bastard but my feelings and opinions don't matter. I walk the road. The surf, I want to kiss the surf. The surf helps me to forget about Ben's comment, helps me to be new again. I look behind me and he is gone. He always emerges in the same manner and I prefer when he disappears abruptly. I don't like to have him hanging around throughout the day because he's not the type I want to invite for a beer around a campfire. I reach the beach, first the soft sand and eventually the hard sand, and walk past the campers and tents, my neighbors. We are packed together in a neat line, orderly and planned. Some of us are retired in large RV's, but most of us are poor, in cars and campers. We don't consider ourselves poor but we are. Somehow the surf helps to make monetary problems seem a bit less dire.

(ii)

I am cold by the time I get to my van, mi casa. Why didn't I put on a sweater underneath the rain jacket? I open the passenger door and sit in the seat, removing my wet jacket and draping it over the large steering wheel. Sand collects on the floorboard and somehow also in the blanket that rests over the top of the seat. As I wrap myself in the cotton blanket, sand falls to the seat and the floor. Any minute I will have a clam hole emerge on my floorboard. At first I tried to sweep out the van daily, but now I don't even try. Maybe weekly, maybe I'll try a weekly cleaning. The front windshield leaks a bit and my towel on the dashboard has become saturated, but I can't bring myself to ring it out until the sun reemerges. I would pray to the sun if I thought it gave a damn about me. It doesn't; we simply co-exist and I plan to die before it. I can't seem to get warm.

If I had any ambition, I would crawl behind the front seats to the floor space between the seats and the bed. There I would prime my stove and light it to make some coffee. Hot coffee. God, I would pray for some hot coffee, but I don't really believe in God and I'm too lazy to make my dreams materialize so, instead, I will sit in a dirty blue blanket, awaiting an absent sun. Where is that damn sun? For the next hour I sit, breathing in and out, doing little else. Sometimes I have a thought and I follow it into another thought that progresses in an unexpected direction. After a few minutes I am at some point of world analysis that has nothing to do with the initial memory that instigated thinking, and at this point, I go back to breathing.

The rain intensifies, but I'm going to breathe myself to warmth. I have an amateur infatuation with Zen Buddhism. What about those holy men in Asia who sit motionless for hours in the cold with clothing more appropriate for summer than winter? They don't get cold, they simply generate heat. I breathe deeply and try to focus on nothing in particular. I can master this body temperature thing. I don't need to get up and make coffee. Nope. I'm a south Texas holy man who generates warmth in an unheated van. I'll just breathe my way to equanimity. Hell, Wyoming was cold. This January Texas weather isn't even freezing. What do I have to complain about? Breathe. Think about random stuff and breathe some more, but after ten minutes I am still cold and nothing has happened.

I am a failed holy man. What kind of holy man grew up in suburbs? This might be Texas but it is cold in January and I'm no spontaneous heat generator. I climb through the front seats, past the cooler and water jug, and into the bed. There are closets around the bed that contain clothing, winter and summer. Summer is easy. Shorts and t-shirts, sandals. But winter—tons of stuff. I pull out a wool sweater and hat. I put on some gloves. I crawl into the sleeping bag. Who needs to be a damn holy man when you can put on more clothes and disappear into a sleeping bag? This is America and we take the most direct path here. I grew up in suburbs and eat fast food hamburgers. I have two wool sweaters because I can. I can only wear one at a time, but now I can alternate sweaters depending on my mood. (Actually, it just depends which one I pick up first when I dip into the closet.) Who heard of a holy man owning two sweaters? Who needs a holy man? This is Texas and people get killed by the state. This is Texas and I can still belong to society even though I live in a van on a beach and have only $50 left of the original $250.

(iii)

I hide in my sleeping bag and listen to the surf, always being present here like the wind in Wyoming. I think about Wyoming, picturing mountains covered with snow. I can hear the Wyoming wind in the Texas surf. It was -15° F in Laramie the day I left in my unheated van. I was rich, $250 rich but I had no job and no place to go. This was three weeks ago. I could have moved into Laramie when I left the Snowy Range and found a job eventually, but I didn't. Instead, it seemed a good idea to travel for days until I eventually found this beach, this public beach with free camping. At the time, I couldn't afford to pay rent with only $250 to my name and I didn't want to live in my van for the long Wyoming winter. But a Texas beach? It seemed like a great place to call home, especially when home is a van. There is no time to get attached to locations when you call a van home. Was it more intelligent to travel across the country in a 1970 VW bus than to travel 37 miles into Laramie? There seemed to be no real choice in the matter. It was clear and simple. Eat oatmeal, beans and rice, and some pasta. Drink coffee and water and avoid wasting money on beer. Gas money; save the money for gas so that Texas could be rediscovered. I am a native Texan, fourth generation, though I don't have a bumper sticker declaring such nonsense. I have returned to my home state but the state hasn't seemed to notice, nor has the beach. To the beach I am as transient as a plastic bottle washed up onto the sand, first in the hard sand and then eventually in the soft sand. Some crazy drunk is going to burn that plastic bottle for the pretty colors, but the pretty colors can't be separated from the noxious fumes. That's what I am, pretty and noxious.

The rain is falling harder and now the back window is leaking, my blankets soaking up the excess water. The rain is so hard that the surf seems distant. Though I am a hundred feet from the surf, it seems miles away. The rain falls and I forget about Wyoming.

Warming, warming but still damp. I can live with damp as long as I have warmth. And with this new found warmth comes a comfort that feels luxurious. For a moment I felt like a 90 year old man, aching and cold, but now I feel like a 24 year old again. It is exciting and I celebrate by masturbating within the privacy of the rain. At first it is slow and methodical, but sexual tensions build and excitement mounts and I eventually feel desperate and wanting. I slow and try to taste the flavors of sexual tension, relax and persist. Slow, happy self-satisfaction that I want to persist for hours, but it won't. When I'm spent, I feel exhausted for a few minutes. I breathe with exhaustion and collapse into my sleeping bag. I am warm now and I have ambition.

(iv)

The rain is slowing and the surf resumes its auditory dominance. I feel like drinking coffee even though it is cheap coffee. But it won't be weak coffee; it will be strong and will let me know that I've had it. I climb into the sandy floor of the van, the area between the bed and the front seats. There was once a carpet here but it got so wet in Texas that it started to grow fungi. I threw it away in a grocery store dumpster after rummaging through the boxes within for edible produce. There was an apple and some cabbage. There was lettuce that I ate with olive oil and salt and pepper. There were stale donuts. I ate them with strong cheap coffee. I remember coffee.

The stove is a little backpack stove that has the fuel and the burner all in one tidy package. A hippie that I knew for a few days gave it to me because he had melted his tent trying to start it. He cussed this stove that I now use. He said he didn't have enough money to buy a new tent and the sight of this stove sent him into a fit of anger. He gave it to me not to be nice but to save himself anguish. I didn't ask him what he was doing cooking inside his tent, because I wanted the stove and didn't want him to suddenly feel stupid, to feel like the melted tent was his fault. Now he feels justified and I have a free stove.

There are very few parts to the stove, making it dependable and durable. I pour the fuel into the bottom of the stove and tighten the cap. Now to prime. I first open the levered windows of the van for ventilation and then return to my seated position in front of the stove. I pour fuel on top of the stove until it fills all of the stove's depressions. Wait. Waiting is important because a hasty lighting can cause a fireball from the vaporized fuel. Thus the melted tent. Got to let those vapors disperse before I light a match. Wait. OK. I light a match and there is a small explosion of vapors around the stove, but not a big one throughout the van. The stove is covered in flames, blue and orange flames. Wait, wait for the stove to get hot so that the liquid fuel inside the tank will get hot enough to vaporize. Burning, priming, burning. As the flame begins to die, I quickly turn the key and the burner ignites. I am in business and will soon be drinking hot coffee. The stove has one speed when operating, extremely hot. This is great for heating water for coffee, but the finer points of cooking require constant movement of the pot away from the stove to prevent burning. I am just heating water now and don't have to worry about the finer points of cooking.

When the water begins to boil, I dump a hand full of grounds from my large coffee can into the pot. Boil those grounds and make it strong, happily strong. It boils and boils and fills the van with a strong coffee aroma that is much nicer than the stale clothing and damp sleeping gear aroma that has dominated the day. I turn off the burner and let the coffee settle. If I had some egg shells, I'd dump them in the coffee to settle the grounds. But I don't, so I wait patiently for most to settle and then I pour a bit of cold water into the pan. It helps. Carefully, I pour the coffee into an insulated mug. I don't want to disturb the grounds at the bottom of the pot so I take my time. Finally, I take a slow, cautious sip from the mug. It is the new highlight of the afternoon.

(v)

When a van is your home, the front seats of the van, especially the passenger seat, become living room recliners. I have a large windshield that is a preferred replacement of the television. In the past, I watched college sports on a TV at a bar or in a friend's living room, but now I have forgotten about sports completely. The college football season is over and the present basketball season seems unaffected by my lack of attention. My life is neither better nor worse without my college entertainment; it is simply different. The tape player in the van ate a tape in New Mexico, and I tried to save the tape with a hammer and screwdriver. The tape was retrieved, and I assume it is still good, but the tape player was ruined. Now I have neither radio nor tape player to listen to the saved tape. I have twenty tapes that I can no longer listen to. As I look at them, stacked in a wooden box between the seats, I think that it is time to burn them. I could give them away but burning would be so dramatic. It would be my rejection of material comforts. No need for entertainment when there is surf and rain and wind and surf. I am certain that this tape burning is a great idea and I will try to remember it when the driftwood is dry again. There will be sun again and clear nights with stars, glowing surf, and dry wood for fires. For now, the rain has died to a drizzle and I can see the beach in its entirety through my large windshield/ TV screen.

I watch the linearity of the beach, but very little is changing, at least not from my standpoint. I sip coffee that is still too hot to drink quickly. It helps me to retain my warmth, to retain comforts. The blanket is draped over my legs and it reminds me of my grandmother. She gets cold in the winter and she waits patiently for the warm weather to return. For several months she drapes a blanket over her legs when she reads or watches television. For several months she puts quilts on the beds, quilts that store family history that only she knows. All the others are dead and when she dies so will the stories. She's told them to me before but I have forgotten them by now. Maybe my mother can remember. There are quilts throughout her Ft. Worth house, family history that seems more meaningful in the context of select spaces. The quilts would seem out of place in the West, more so in my van. They would remain attractive but would become meaningless in a non-Texas house. In the bed of my van, they would appear to be stolen. I drink the coffee, longer drinks this time, slow and steady.

I watch the beach, but very little is changing. For a moment, I begin to feel lonely, so isolated from friends and family. I watch a gull peck at something on the beach, on the hard sand. Another arrives, then another. They fight and jockey for position. What is it that they are eating? The rain has stopped. Well, maybe a mist is left. Someone moves down the beach—a stranger to me. Everyone is a stranger to me and sometimes I feel like talking, like meeting a potential friend or acquaintance, but most of the time I keep to myself. There are others like me on the beach and we sit alone, watching the surf.

(vi)

The day is growing short and it is time for dinner, but maybe I will skip dinner tonight. I don't want another noodle dinner, or a can of beans. I want a fish dinner with vegetables and rice. I want fresh, crisp vegetables and baked fish, and I want to drink a cold beer while I eat my fish and vegetables. I would love to catch that fish for dinner, but I can't afford a license and all the gear that one needs to fish in the surf. God, it would be great to fish. Another option would be to eat fish in a restaurant, but I can't afford that either. I tried in the last week, my only week here, to get a job in a restaurant, hoping they would provide a free meal for each shift. A dishwasher would be a good job for me because nobody bothers the dishwasher—low stress and constant satisfaction. I love to stack clean plates on the shelves. I love to clean things. But this is the off season for the Texas coast. Nobody is hiring, nor will they until March, but I don't think I can wait that long. I want the money for a good meal today. Oh well, coffee and Copenhagen for dinner. I do love Copenhagen after a cup of coffee. I can buy Copenhagen but I can't buy a fish dinner. Addictions seem to be my priority.

(vii)

As I said before, I came here from Wyoming where I was a caretaker of a mountain lodge owned by an old couple from Colorado. It was an old log lodge with thirty cabins behind it, all heated with wood. I had cut and split countless cords of wood when I arrived in August. I loved cutting and splitting wood, especially on cold days when the pine split easily. One hit and instant gratification. And the smell of split wood beneath the limbs of old growth spruce and fir!

After a couple of months at the lodge, however, a fundamental problem became apparent. It was supposedly a nonprofit environmental education center, but there were no classes offered. When I arrived in August, the couple had shown me a brochure of environmental courses and research facilities provided by the lodge. In the first three months there, the only people that used the place were skiers and wedding guests and random people looking for a mountain experience. There were neither educational nor research services. It was a profit enterprise operating under a nonprofit tax shelter. This was not immediately apparent to me when I arrived at the lodge during the summer because I was infatuated with the old growth forest and antique buildings. It became apparent to the Forest Service, however. The Colorado couple only owned the buildings; the Forest Service owned the land and allowed the couple to run nonprofit services under special permit by the Forest Service. The owners, the rangers said, were in violation of their permit. As caretaker of the lodge, I was also responsible for this violation.

I confronted the owners. I told them I would run a nonprofit for them if they would advance me money for advertising. I needed only a few thousand dollars for advertising. I was certain this money would be recouped because the place had historical character in an old growth setting. My suggestions were met with anger and intolerance. This is when I discovered their real intention for the place. They had bought the place for a steal and wanted to sell it for a big profit. They didn't want to run a nonprofit. They didn't even want to run a profit oriented lodge. They wanted to sell the place, and until that time, they wanted me to be quiet and avoid the Forest Service. They seemed like nice grandparents who wanted to spoil grandchildren. They looked like apple pie but they tasted like greasy french fries cooked in old oil. I said to hell with them and gave a two month notice unless they were willing to change their business practices. They didn't change their practices, nor did they pay me. By January I had been stiffed $750 and had no choice but to leave.

(viii)

The thought of them makes me angry, so angry that I can no longer sit still in my van recliner, the passenger seat. I try to take a drink of coffee but find only an empty cup. I throw off the blanket and grab my jacket for a walk on the beach. I walk toward the surf and then wander down the beach, passing wood, trash and clam holes. I step around the tar balls that dot the brown sand. A plover darts back and forth with the tide, busily looking for food. I was beginning to feel sorry for myself, for my situation. The sorrow was turning to anger and it was becoming pointless. I could turn round and round in self-destructive mental gymnastics, but what good would it do? Exhaust me. I walk the beach quickly, but as the surf changes my mood, my pace slows. I like walking along the National Seashore better, but this state beach is also nice. It seems a bit more crowded, though.

"You where an idiot to trust that old couple from Colorado. You should have known from the beginning that something was up. Remember the bad feeling you got from them the moment you met them? You didn't trust yourself and you never can because you are a fuck up. Now look. What are you going to do now? You can't trust any of these people on the beach to help you. Are you going to run back to your family?" Ben is back and he is as annoying as ever.

The hell with you, Ben. But maybe he is right. He is probably right. I walk faster again and feel lost. I was feeling better but now I am completely confused. I stop. Slowly and purposefully, as in a ritual, I remove a can of Copenhagen and forcefully pack it. I take a pinch and place it between my cheek and gum. I walk. I stop. I turn and begin walking back. What does a suburban business man know about life on the road? Why does he have to vacation with me? The hell with him. He is probably right, though. Four pelicans glide over the water with effortless motion. I want to be like a pelican but I feel more like a plover, running back and forth. At least the damn plover is accomplishing something. I don't seem to accomplish anything. God, I am worthless. I would pray but I don't believe that any absolute being or activity would give a shit about my neurotic rambling. Why would it? Why should any other human, for that matter?

My perceptions have become increasingly disjointed so that fluidity no longer exists between multiple experiences. I don't know when it began, a gradual process that leaves me looking at the world as though I were inside a pinball machine. But the pinball player—not me, I'm the ball—I think the pinball player is on acid, a perverse omnipotence that rearranges my thoughts and all input. Like I said, it was gradual, so that life now seems normal this way. Sometimes there are breaks in the disjointed nature of my experiences, but these breaks constitute a swing of experiences to the opposite of the fluidity continuum. During these breaks, experience flows like a salty wave that leaves me paranoid about the exact nature of reality. It leaves me swimming in a fishbowl of phenomena, peering at the world through thick, contoured glass.

Presently I am alone and lost, but I am going to find something some day. I don't know what that something is but I will find it and it will be good. Life will be like a chocolate bunt cake and I will grow fat and lazy. What kind of life is that? Fat and lazy? I reconsider my position and decide it would be better to live and experience some discomfort to remind me that I am alive. Maybe I should be like those Zen monks who train themselves to embrace pleasure and pain equally. Take it all in and eat it up!

"Life is better as a bunt cake. The rest are losers." Ben has an annoying, authoritative voice. He sounds like the capitalist god. Maybe I'm a loser like Ben says. Maybe there's no place in this society for me. Maybe I'll just walk down this beach and hang out in my bus.

The clouds are breaking. Am I?

## II

(i)

"Hey, I am looking for..."

"Jason. You are looking for Jason. Right?"

"Yes... about work..."

"Just a minute." Cindy calls one of two offices. Nothing. She tries the other office, the co-owner's office. It is not Jason, but he is the co-owner. Why didn't she call him yesterday? A tall man in his mid-30's walks into the hardware store from the back and comes directly to me. He doesn't acknowledge Cindy. He seems busy.

"Can I help you?"

"Jason?"

"No, I'm Steve. Jason is out. You're looking for work?"

"Yes, sir, for a job doing whatever... landscaping or hardware or whatever... I..."

"Well... we don't have anything right now. It is the off season here."

"That's what everyone is telling me."

"That's right. We're having a hard time keeping our permanent employees working right now. And I don't think it will change for a month or so. Check in in a month or so... Maybe a few weeks. We might have something then." He smiles like a limp handshake. He doesn't care what my name is though I start to offer. I start to tell him I'm John Jones and that I've driven all this way to work for him, but he has turned around before I can say thanks. He is busy and uninterested, like all bosses.

I walk down the road, hoping to see an empty beach. Where do I think all the campers will have gone in the past hour that I have been away? I walked to the hardware/landscaping store but not directly. First, I went to the public bathroom near the pier. I went inside the men's room and used the urinal. Then I turned on the cold water at the sink and washed my hands. I had a backpack with a razor, deodorant and soap, fresh shirt and small wash cloth. The water was as cold as the air outside. I stripped my shirt and bathed in the sink, shaving my face with soap and a dull razor, and being cold, it was not enjoyable. What was I to do? First impressions can be hard to erase and I wanted to make a good one. But I don't think I made any impression at all. I think that he forgot about me as soon as he turned around and headed back to his office. Dammit! To make matters worse, the beach is still filled with the same old campers.

I shuffle down the beach, past the pier and into the open beach. As I walk by an old VW bus, an older hippie opens the door. "Hey... man.... you got... any smokes?" I immediately recognize the van as a 1978 camper. It is orange but is rusting badly. A few days ago I heard it run and it sounds worse than it looks. It looks bad. Beer cans fall out of the van as Bernie stumbles into the day.

"No... don't smoke."

"Damn... just... thought... well... you might. You... livin'... on... here... this beach.... here... on this beach?"

"Yep. Got that VW bus down the way a few hundred yards."

"So... you're the... one... that drives... I seen...that van...your van... Got... to... watch out... on... this... beach... cause... rust... your... van... This van... painted... a... year ago... Now look....bout to... leak.... and... rust... apart."

"Hey, I'm John Jones."

"Should I... know... you?... Did we... meet... already?"

"Nope, just now."

"Bernie."

"Know of any work around here?"

"No... I... can't work... haven't... been... able to... in....years... Nam... got a... plate... in my... head... and... can't... seem... to... hold... nothin'... Get... disability... and stuff... but can't... seem... to... keep a... place... to... live... so... I just... live... in... this... van... and... drink... beer... all... day... long... Speaking of... I'm out."

"Well, I'm running out of money and nobody is hiring right now. It's kinda depressing."

"Then... I know... Go... get... yourself... food... stamps... You'll... get...'em... in a... few... days... It's gooood... money... and... you'll... eat... well... on it."

"You know where it is?"

"Yep... but... I... can't...tell... you... I... just... know... how... I... get... there... and... I... don't... know... none of... the... street... names."

"Thanks, Bernie... Thanks a lot. I'm going to go to my van and make some coffee. Good luck finding the beer."

I walk down the beach with new hope. Food stamps? I hadn't thought of that before. I guess the government makes food stamps for people like me, people in my situation. Why not? I could make a town run and buy food and gas. I pull the can of snuff out of my pocket and check. That's good enough to last a few more days. I walk happily, proudly. I can get out of this mess. Everything seems so much clearer and simpler. My head is not bent down, looking at the sand in front of my feet. No, this time I walk with head up, noticing the shoreline and the endless water behind it. The oil rigs are visible in the distance. A tanker moves across the horizon. It is so small out there, small and lonely. It is my friend for the moment; it can relate to me.

(ii)

I am back at my van, my white van with superficial rust. How long will it take before my van looks like Bernie's? I don't want to be here that long. I vow to myself that I will leave before my van rusts apart, returning to the West, to the mountains and grasslands, or maybe the desert. This is simply a winter excursion and will be limited to one winter. Not one winter and spring, but one winter, period.

Enough of such forecasts. Now it is time for coffee. Coffee will give me the ambition to find my way back to the West. Coffee and food stamps will solve any dilemmas. I pull out the stove and light it, but this time the sliding door is open and my kitchen is the beach. This time it is sunny, cool and sunny and life is perfect. I only have one burner and decide that coffee should come before oatmeal. Oatmeal will make my hunger go away for a few hours. Coffee will give me ambition and oatmeal will give me the power to achieve, and this breakfast seems to last forever. I feel like a blank sheet, empty sheet on a quiet beach with lines of the surf. And it is simple. There are no conflicting thoughts, no distractions. I want life to be this way, so clear and simple, but I know it won't last. I try to lie to myself and believe that clarity will last forever now that I have found this moment. But I know it won't.

I start the van and it sounds like shit. It doesn't sound as badly as Bernie's, but it doesn't sound good either. The guy next to me, Mark, has a 1960's American muscle car. I don't know what kind it is but it sounds powerful and well-tuned. He has a popup camper that he lives in, but his car is unattached and races down the beach. It almost seems like he wants to run over his neighbors in order to claim more beach. He drives like he is in a hurry, but I know he is not. I am in a hurry, but my van doesn't sound like I am. My van sounds like a kid with a cough and a runny nose. I go to the engine and try to adjust the carburetor but it doesn't help. It still sounds as though it is full of snot. The hell with it. I drive down the beach and eventually off the island to the mainland, wondering what is wrong with my van. I drive to a gas station and fill the tank and it costs me $10 of the precious $50. I tell myself it is a good investment. The van now has a full tank but it still stalls sometimes when I stop. It still sounds like shit.

There is a big grocery store nearby and I drive into the parking lot. I need a bathroom, a dumpster, a phone book and phone, and some peanut butter. That is the order of my needs at the moment and I proceed as if it were spelled out for me to do so. Sometimes I create military order, lists that I cannot deviate from. Maybe it helps me to stay sane since the rest of my life lacks order. Maybe I have an elementary psychology and need to follow some kind of rules in life, even if they are self-imposed. I find the bathroom dirty, but I live on a beach and can't complain. The dumpster is empty except for some packaged meat and empty boxes so I go to the phone book, but I don't have any change for the phone. I deviate—peanut butter first. I walk the aisles and eat some food along the way, especially from the bin aisle. Now I have change. Phone calls. I feel nervous. Why? This is ridiculous. I realize that I have no pencil or paper and I walk back to the bus. The parking lot seems so big, too big. Eventually, the calls are made, and the places for food stamps and job service are contacted, and directions from my grocery store are obtained. Life is good and I feel as though I were on a divine mission, but I don't believe in God so the mission is Self.

(iii)

When I walk into the family services place to get my food stamps, I feel embarrassed and ashamed. The feeling that I can't take care of myself emerges instantly as I cross the threshold.

"Damn right, John. How did you get yourself in the position to beg from the state? You can't even take care of yourself. And you think that one day you could be a family man? You're a social blight. At one time you had such a bright future but you have managed to fall from social graces. I can't look at you anymore." Brian says.

"Fine. Leave."

Two women in the room look at me and stare. Why are they staring? I look away and walk to the window. Brian is a rich college kid that has never had to work in his life. He has always had his family to bail him out. Didn't he once fail out of college? Didn't he once have a DUI? I look back to call him a hypocrite, but he has already left. He has family and I have the state. A woman behind a window asks me if I need some help, so I tell her why I'm here and explain that this is just a temporary situation. I could use some food stamps until I can find work, but I will only need them for a month or two. I will be fine then, in a month or two. She listens patiently and gives me a form to fill out, but as I sit down with the form, I feel officially irresponsible. By the time I am finished, I am a self-diagnosed social failure. The two women continue to look at me, stopping only when I stare back.

I am asked to talk with a woman, probably a social worker, in an office behind a door near the window. Leaving the waiting area, I try to forget about Brian and his belittling comments. He is always that way, belittling. No, sometimes he is an elitist. This woman is dressed nicely but not expensively. She is a medium-sized, large boned woman with larger breasts that push out a white cotton blouse flanked by a blue polyester suit. She has a ready smile, white teeth and red lips, blue eyeliner and no other makeup that is apparent. As she shakes my hand, I notice hers is well-lotioned but large. Please sit, she tells me. She seems responsible and genuinely caring. She asks me questions about my present situation and recent background. I look down at the floor, at my worn boots. She has a manner about her, official yet not attacking. She has a soft voice and a manner that makes me feel more comfortable. I start to look up, to look into her eyes. Will she capture my soul? No, she is safe and she will help me. I can look up. Can I have pride? Yes, she thinks I can be proud enough to stand upright and firmly shake a hand. I am leaving with the assurance that my food stamps will be ready in three days. Normally, it takes longer, but I am a hardship case, an emergency case. But she doesn't think I will always be a hardship case. No, someday I will be someone who can take care of himself. Someday I will accomplish great things. She shakes my hand again and this time I notice her eyes, brown and gentle. I look around her office before leaving. It seems too small for her and all her file cabinets and particle board furniture. As I walk out of her office and look around, I want to give all the people in the place a big hug, but I am afraid to touch them. I am afraid that they will know too much.

(iv)

"Well, where to now chief?" It is Brian and he is waiting by my van. He is getting in the passenger seat. Don't do that. You are not welcome to ride with me. Get back into that new car that your father bought you.

I wish I had a dog that loved me. A dog might keep my unwanted acquaintances at bay. A dog might keep my head clear.

I start the engine and pull out of the parking lot into traffic. It is hard to drive an old van in modern traffic. The other cars are so much more responsive and I find myself driving defensively without the option of being offensive. God, I am glad Brian didn't stay with me. He is gone and I can drive alone to the job service center without distractions.

(v)

The job service center is white and glass and linoleum and completely sterile. It isn't sterile in a cleanliness sense but rather in a lack of hope. The line is long and the faces are dim, even in the florescent lighting. I need to come here for the food stamps and I have found a job before in one of these places. I take my turn in the line and wait. Breathe in and out and in again. It doesn't seem real, this day. It seems as though I am in a dream with every movement accentuated to the point it borders formlessness. I am in a cartoon, but none of the characters are happy. A thought comes across the radio and it makes me uncomfortable. It is my thought and what is it doing on the airwaves? I get nervous and begin to leave.

"You'll get there eventually. Just wait and it'll pass."

What is he talking about? How does he know how I feel? Maybe this is a sign. Maybe he is a guru. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

"No. I don't think so, but I could see you were getting tired of waiting and I've been here so much that I know when a person's gonna give up. How long you been outta work?" He is short with leathery brown skin that blends into his brown snap-button shirt and dirty blue jeans.

"A few weeks. Month maybe. But I'm low on money so I need something soon."

"Shit. A few weeks? I've been coming here for a few months. And I got this kid, ya see. This kid, now he's gonna be somethin' one of these days. I gotta support him and I ain't got no job. You see, I used to be a foreman on a construction crew and I paid taxes. I got my due. Damn government took all that money out, and for what? Build some bomb or somethin'. That kid of mine, he's somethin'. But government don't give no kind of education to the kid, at least no good'en. His school—got cracks in the walls. And the water, varnish color I tell you. Why can't they put some money toward that? Hey, move up."

"Oh, yes, thanks," I say and move forward in line.

"I'm about to give up on the job service 'cause there's no jobs in this town. Man, I miss my kid. My old lady, ex old lady, is a bitch. Don't let me see the kid. Thinks I'm some kinda asshole. Like she ain't an asshole or somethin'."

"Must be tough. Sorry, man."

"What the fuck you sorry for? I hope not for me 'cause I don't need it."

"No, man, just..."

"I'll get on my feet fine on my own. I don't need no sympathy."

I don't know what to say so I look at the line and the desks beyond. I shuffle in place for a bit, slouching and looking at my worn boots. Looking up, I notice that people don't look happy when they leave the desks. They look like the people in line waiting for a desk to open, for the promise of a job. They look like me.

"Hey, I don't know your name."

"John."

"John. You want a dog? I got this dog, not quite a year old, but it's a good dog. Some kind of lab mutt but it's a good dog."

"If it's so good, why are you getting rid of it?"

"Don't got no place to keep it now that my old lady kicked me out. At a friend's house, and his landlord don't allow no pets. It's a good watch dog too. I'll wait for you after you're finished so you can see her. Interested?"

"Yes. A dog might be good on the beach."

"You on the beach? Well, a dog will watch your stuff. Nobody gonna steal nothin' with a dog around. Hey, you're up."

I turn around and see a woman motioning me to her desk. It is a desk like all the other desks, and she blends into the staff like her desk blends into the other furniture. I sit and we talk a bit. The questions are asked so many times in a day that I feel as though I'm talking to a recorder. My answers sound rehearsed as they emerge from my mouth. My mouth is moving but my brain does not appear to be directing the output. The sound of my voice isn't my own. It is a prerecorded tape that I am playing, pausing at the appropriate times, and playing again.

There are not many jobs open at present, but she will refer me to the same jobs that she has referred a hundred people to today. It is late afternoon and the competition must be fierce for these jobs. I don't have a chance, especially since I don't have a phone, address or reliable vehicle. For some reason every employer wants these things. I quit listening to her as she talks, her voice being so boring. I am tired of this place and I want to leave, to see the dog in the parking lot. I get up without saying thanks. I know that I don't want a job behind her desk. What I want is a dog.

(vi)

I walk outside into the sun and immediately feel more relaxed, refreshed and clean. I feel there is hope again even though the employment situation in Corpus Christi is so depressed. It hasn't always been this way and it won't be in the future, but my present job outlook appears grim. Where is this dog? To hell with work. I can make it back West somehow, even if I am out of money. I've done it before by hitchhiking across the country. I've picked up rides with a backpack as my sole possession and a dream as my only income. What's that guy's name? I didn't get it. What kind of car would he drive? I walk around the parking lot and try to guess, to find the car and the prized dog inside. Wasn't I just wondering about a dog? Maybe this is fate. I'm going to love this dog. I know it.

"Hey, John. Over here." The guy from the line is walking diagonally across the parking lot. He is going to an old, white Ford Bronco that has the front windows cracked. As he opens the door, a black head pops up with tail wagging. The dog jumps out of the truck and runs straight for me. She doesn't jump; she simply rubs against me. I bend down, petting her. She licks my face. It is a her, isn't it? Yes, a her and she is beautiful. Her hair is longer than a lab's and her ears aren't as floppy. But her coat is jet black and it shines in the sun. The guy stands and smiles. "I think you've found a new friend, Maggie. I've even got a bag of dog food in the truck; it should last a month. A dog and dog food. What do you think?"

"God, man, I was just thinking about getting a dog earlier this morning and here she is. This would be great for me. You sure you want to do this?"

"I ain't got no choice and I ain't found nobody till you that would make a good home. I don't know you too well, but I can immediately tell you're good people. And I'm not too wrong on my immediate hunches."

He stands and watches Maggie run around the parking lot, back and forth. I watch like a proud new parent. A dog, my dog. I'm going to be her human. I call her and she comes immediately. I say 'sit' and she sits, her tail sweeping the parking lot. I pet her on the head and compliment her intelligence. She smiles, revealing a large pink tongue and white teeth. Damn, those are some white teeth. The guy (I don't know his name and never will) finds a ball inside the truck and tosses it into the air. She is an athlete and she will never be bored with a ball. I play ball with her in the parking lot as he disappears into his Bronco. He emerges with dog food and a bowl. We walk to my van and introduce the new family member to her house, our house. We place the food and the bowl in the van as a contract. I now have a family.

## III

(i)

There are countless sandhill cranes on the National Seashore. They take flight occasionally, and collectively seem to be very busy, their calls being heard from a mile away. The inland side of the island, with grasses and cranes, seems so distant from the surf. Maybe it seems distant to me because I am from foreign lands. Sitting in a cabin in Wyoming, I thought of surf and beach when I thought of the Texas coast. I didn't think of marshes, estuaries or lagoons. I didn't even think of sand dunes. I thought of a beach setting with kids building castles and women wearing bathing suits. It's been too cold for bathing suits. But now that I am here, I see the coast differently, and these cranes are now part of that image. Maggie sits beside me, watching the cranes. I have not put her on a leash or told her to stay; she simply seems to want my company. The cranes are interesting but not prey, at least not presently. I look at her and wonder if she would chase a crane if it came too close. I envy the cranes; they seem graceful and romantic, of which I am neither. I picture Maggie grabbing a crane by the neck and killing it instantly. The thought makes me happy, but so does one particular crane in dance. For most of the time standing here, I have missed the individuals for the masses. Now that I concentrate on one particular bird, I want to kiss it for its grace and romance. Maggie lies down.

We return to the van and drive to the surf, the real coast of my imagination. The sandhill cranes become faint once I get to the beach, this beach of greater solitude. Even though most of the people are camped along the first few miles of it, they are still spread out in a rural manner. I drive past the campers until I find respectable isolation. Some of the campers I recognize from earlier in the week. They are full-timers, having important things to do such as walk the beach. I will be their student for a few days. In a few days I can collect my food stamps and look for jobs again, but now I have the important task of bonding with a dog, an easy task considering her fondness for me. We walk the beach, not far but far enough to find some drift wood. I have lost interest in shells for the moment, and though I was never a big shell collector, I pick them up anyway, look and feel, and drop them to the sand. Maggie has no interest in shells; she is a drift wood dog. I throw the stick and she responds with athleticism. We have found our new routine.

Evening is coming. Colors are becoming soft, later to become faint. We walk back to the van. It is not far, but far enough to meet some new people. I saw their bus earlier in the week and now I am meeting them, at least part of them. It turns out they have children; they are not alone. I am not alone, either, and I introduce them to my dog as though she were always mine. They don't seem to care. Fuck them. I start to walk away but they become polite again. They invite me to their bus for dinner, but I decline. Tomorrow? Sure, what the hell. I act civil and not indifferent, though I feel indifferent. The guy tells a joke and we all laugh a little because it is funny, not because we are polite, and I promise to come for dinner tomorrow before departing.

Maybe I should have gone for dinner tonight because I don't have much food. At least I have dog food for the dog. I fill her bowl and she eats without seeming to breathe. God, she eats fast. She finishes before I can do anything else, walks to me, and burps. She jumps into the van and jumps again to the bed. She appears to be satisfied for the evening. Am I going to be satisfied? I look at my food and decide on peanut butter spread over an old tortilla. I don't eat it quickly, more absentmindedly than enjoyably, nor do I burp at the end. I sit at the edge of my van, sliding door open, and watch the surf. Stars are slowly emerging and the coyotes begin to howl. Are they eating enough rabbits? I wonder if they would like dog food. Maybe Maggie would like what they eat better than pebbles of food product. Looking into the van, I see nothing, and it makes me think she is happy with her new life, content with pet food product and bed.

(ii)

The next morning is like the evening before. It starts with me sitting on the edge of my van, sliding door open, and the dog lounging on the bed. She doesn't seem to be in any hurry, nor do I. After 15 minutes, I get up to make some coffee, and she jumps out of the bed to explore. I keep an eye on her, always paranoid that she is going to leave me. I don't like the idea of being alone again, having grown instantly attached to her company, and I watch her as I make coffee. She goes behind the van to the dunes and I call her back. She comes, walking first down to the surf, sniffing, but soon finding a piece of driftwood and returning with it in her mouth. My coffee is ready. I sit at the edge of the van and toss the stick. She is working hard; I am drinking coffee. Finally worn out, I tell her to 'take a break'. She doesn't understand and her first real training with me begins. We work on it and she finally lies down, panting while I drink coffee.

I often watch the surf for hours, even when it is calm like this morning. It is southern surf this morning, lazy in the humidity. It is quiet and my mind is calm. Things seem almost like a blank page, not quite but almost. We walk down the beach. The couple I met yesterday evening is outside of their purple school bus. They wave for me to come over but I simply wave back and continue walking. We are playing fetch as we walk. Sometimes I bend down to pick up a shell. I look at it, feel it, and drop it to the ground. I look behind me to see my footprints in the sand, fading as I walk away. Maggie will never tire of playing, this is obvious.

A thin woman, my age, is standing between a green tent and a blue four-door car. It is a relatively new car and she doesn't look old enough to have earned it. I could be wrong; she is still far away. I wave and she waves back. I hope that she will walk down to see my dog, now rolling happily in the sand. She doesn't; she simply waves and returns to whatever she was doing before I noticed her. For a moment, I pretend that she is with me and that she plays with my dog as I look at trash on the beach. I pretend that she loves me and thinks that I am the most romantic and graceful man alive. I picture the crane, dancing. I picture her nude in the surf, the lazy surf, gently calling me to join her. The beach is deserted but it is filled by the two of us and my dog.

(iii)

I pick up a yellow plastic bottle washed up on the beach, a foreign bottle by the writing, but I cannot tell from where. I stop looking at it long enough to throw the stick, bottle in hand until I drop it in a new location, realizing I was carrying the thing for no reason. I stop. Does this dog swim? The stick back in hand, I look at her and encourage her like an elementary school coach. I throw the stick, not far, but in the water. She slowly wades into the water, a small wave hitting her in the face. I encourage. She wades farther. I encourage. She finally sees the stick and lunges for it, bounding in the water. We try it again. This time I throw the stick farther into the lazy surf. These are not intimidating waves, but she is cautious. She slowly moves deeper until she sees the stick. That's it, swimming with vigor. We play this new game for an hour.

(iv)

We walk further down the beach, the campers becoming sparser and the beach more immense. The beach is the same but it is not, I am sure of it. There is nobody else on the beach but a young Hispanic boy, thin and brown. What is he doing by himself, so far from others? Can it be him? I look but I can't tell. He is walking away from me, running at times, stopping at times to look at beach trinkets. He picks up a crab shell and admires it for a minute. He holds it gingerly for a moment then drops it to the ground and stomps on it. He laughs aloud and runs down the beach so proud of his accomplishment.

I think about a job I once had in a small town in southeastern Arizona. More specifically, I think about a child I had once known in a professional manner. I say it was professional, but mostly it was a benefited babysitter position with a kid that shouldn't have been a student. But we were together, in a professional association, this kid and me. I don't know that most school districts would have tried to teach this kid, but this particular school district was desperate for students to justify its existence. In the six weeks that I was there as a teacher's aide, three teachers left. The student/teacher ratio was great, if only the teachers could stay. Some did and maybe they accomplished great things, but I didn't.

I had come from the Wyoming mountains just like this time, from the cold, the forests, the streams. I was in a paradise, made more so by my unemployment. Then the bills and feelings of social responsibility ruined my paradise. There was a believed need for financial security, health insurance, and retirement planning. It was all bullshit but it was what I was feeling in a Wyoming paradise. I was also feeling like I was enlightened at times, being spoken to in the mountains and the trees and streams therein. Invincible, yet incomplete; God, yet Jim Crow.

This kid, is it the same kid? I call his name but the kid doesn't respond. He just keeps running in the lazy surf. He is always a bit distant, never attainable.

It was hot in southeastern Arizona, hot and dry. I would walk all day looking for water, dreaming of trout fishing in Wyoming. What was I doing in Arizona in August? And with this kid? His eyes were filled with wonder but his head was filled with destruction. It was a constant battle with this kid. I couldn't take my eyes from him for more than 30 seconds. He was twelve, but he couldn't write his name and he didn't want to write his name. He would hit me and bite me when I tried to teach him to write his name. But he would work on an old lawn mower. He loved to rev that lawn mower engine as high as it would rev, rev it and cut some grass. He loved to make crazy patterns in the lawn and then leave it running. While it ran, he would run to a classroom and try to beat up the real students, the ones learning how to read and write. I would chase him like an idiot. I was an idiot. I was hit with hammers, screwdrivers, and sprayed with spray paint. I was an idiot.

One morning, as I rode a bike into town from my abandoned ranch house, I stopped. Three kids walked by me and said hello. I said hello and smiled. Then I turned around. I rode back to the house in the desert, near the wilderness area and the mountain lion. I rode quickly and effortlessly, sweating and smiling. I had to be fast. The others (imprisoned teachers) would surely stop me and convince me to stay. Brian didn't. He was there for a visit and he told me to leave. He also told me to hit that kid, just slap him hard across the face and scream. I didn't, but I thought I might. I thought I might take that hammer and hit that kid across the head. Just kill him and end it. But instead, I ran from that town. I got home and started throwing my belongings into my van. I didn't organize; I just threw because I thought there was no time to waste. I drove, I drove as quickly as that old van would run because I couldn't let the other teachers stop me. I didn't feel badly for not giving a notice. I saved them a lawsuit and I prison time. I ran. I was liberated. They didn't catch me. They couldn't stop me. I returned to paradise in Wyoming. I returned to my lonely existence in the mountains, in the cold.

For a moment, I am lost in memory but I return to the beach. I remember the kid running down the beach, running in the surf. I want to catch him but he is gone. He is nowhere to be found. Was he that kid? Where the hell did that kid go? Maggie has a stick. She is laying in the sand trying to eat that piece of driftwood. I tell her to drop it and she eventually does. I throw it far into the water and she swims after it without hesitation. I should give her a raise. She should get some meat when we return to town. I will have food stamps. She can have meat.

(v)

As we walk toward the van, the distant van growing closer, we pass a large drum. I don't remember seeing it on the way out. How did it suddenly emerge? The tide isn't coming in; it will be low tide soon. I move the drum and read the opposite side. 'Not Regulated'. I was beginning to feel safe on the National Seashore; I was beginning to feel safe in Texas. I look into the gulf. There are some distant ships and the permanent oil rigs. I roll the drum down the beach for no apparent reason, Maggie barking at me and the drum. I push it toward her and she bounces in a playful manner, running around the drum and biting at my ankles. I run down the beach, leaving the drum and laughing, screaming. The shorebirds fly ahead of us. They want to settle but we are too dangerous. We might pummel them with rusted steal. They fly and we run, no apparent pattern, simply filled with a youthful exuberance for eternity.

I look up from the sand in front of my feet. I am short of breath but the dog is hardly panting. I stop and throw a stick far into the surf. She is walking down the beach. She is coming closer, tall and thin, young. She has long brown hair that is occasionally in her face. I want to be the one to move her hair back into a braid. I want to say hello. Maggie does it for me. She bends gracefully to pick up the stick and throws it awkwardly. It doesn't go far but Maggie doesn't care. Maggie is in the water with confident bounds. I am awkward, but I continue to approach because she is graceful beneath her baggy pants and sweater. She wears no makeup and, coming closer, I hope she never does. She doesn't need to and it would only detract from her beauty, from her smile, her smile that is growing as she approaches.

"This is a great dog! What's her name?"

"Her name is Maggie and mine is John. We just met yesterday and already are falling into our family roles."

"Do you mean us, or you and the dog?"

"No. This is the first time I've met you. I would remember meeting you. I mean the dog."

"I thought maybe I was missing something. Is this not your dog?"

"Oh, it's my dog and I am her human as of yesterday afternoon. I was looking for a job and found a dog."

"How lucky! That's better than a job, even a good job."

I am immediately infatuated. Maybe she's just a good talker, trying to sell me something. A dog better than a good job? Of course, but how many people would say that? What would she be selling? I can't imagine her needing anything in this world. I can't imagine her manipulating, but I am probably blinded by the rusting steel drum labeled 'Not Regulated'. Maybe she is a cannibal, waiting to devour young hippies with black dogs. I heard black dogs are a delicacy in parts of Asia. I don't know if it is true, but maybe. Maybe hippies are a delicacy on Texas beaches and I just don't know about it because I'm a foreigner. Wait, I'm not a foreigner. I should have heard about this if it were true.

"Where are you from?" I say.

"Austin. You?"

"Well, I don't know. Ft. Worth originally but lots of places. This beach now."

"This beach now for both of us."

"Here for long?"

"A fair bit. I'm between jobs and thought that I would come here before starting another one, but I didn't find a dog. Unless, of course, you want to give up yours."

I smile large enough for her to see the Copenhagen in my mouth. I'm sure that it is in my teeth because it always seems to be. I am suddenly self-conscious and stop smiling, bending my head as if nervous. The dog isn't nervous, and Maggie immediately picks up the slack, barking for attention. She throws the stick for my dog, my new dog, and laughs as my dog bounds in the cold water. I want to leave because I'm suddenly afraid to talk with her, but I would love her to come with me to my van and sit around a fire with me, talking.

"It was nice to meet you, John, and your dog. Maggie? Yes, very nice to meet you, Maggie. I think I will resume my walk. Adios."

She leaves quickly and walks the beach as if she has nothing better to do. She probably doesn't have anything better to do. Stand around and talk to me with chew in my teeth? God, she walks so elegantly. I bet she can dance. I can't dance. Maggie starts to follow her, but I call and Maggie returns. We walk toward the van, but we are not so elegant.

(vi)

"That was a smooth encounter. You didn't even get her name. Did you notice the way she smiled? She was beautiful but you couldn't even get her name. And that shit in your mouth. God, John, you must be the least romantic guy I know. Just stay on this beach in your van. It suits you to be alone." Brian is standing at the van, waiting. He is in his usual white button down shirt and khaki pants, loosely hanging over brown loafers. This is the way he always dresses and his hair is always in a messy brown part, slightly touching his ears. He laughs in disbelief.

He's right. I feel like an idiot. Why couldn't I at least get her name? I make some coffee and watch the dog chase rabbits in the dunes. I hope she will catch one and eat it. I hope she will live fully, more so than I am. I watch and drink my coffee. She returns when my coffee is finished and drinks a bowl full of water, making me wonder how much salt water she has swallowed today. I pour more water into her bowl but she has collapsed and is uninterested in more water. I crawl into bed and start a book by John Fante called _Wait Until Spring, Bandini._ I read for over an hour and discover my name in the book. Arturo wanted to be named John Jones. Is this coincidence? I put down the book and close my eyes. The dog is snoring next to me on the bed. She has deposited at least a pound of sand on the bed. I wonder about my parents and imagine them reading this book when they were expecting me. I imagine them immediately deciding on my name once reading the same sentence that I now read and it makes me smile.

(vii)

I didn't intend to fall asleep, but I am later awakened by a knock on my van. Maggie is barking and I can't get her to stop. It is the toothless, overweight hippie from the purple school bus and he invites me to dinner. It will be ready in thirty minutes if I can make it, and I tell him that I will be over sometime before that. I am still waking up but the dog is completely awake and ready to go, but the dog will have to stay outside. They are not dog people, the purple bus owners. They are kid people; they seem to generate kids. I am a dog person; the responsibility of raising kids scares me. I finally get my dog to settle down, but I like the thought of having a watch dog while on the road. I'm not worried about this beach, but sometimes it is nice to have some security. I have a gun, but it is packed away and not easily accessible. It is a shotgun that I once hunted birds with. I don't have any shells for it now, but I keep it in case I decide to bird hunt again, not really thinking of it as protection. I don't think of the dog as protection, either. Now I have protection from someone, though I don't know who that someone might be. What do I have to protect? I haven't locked my van for years because I have nothing valuable. It is a freedom of mind that is priceless. People are different, though. I like the security of a dog because some people make me paranoid. Some people I do not trust.

We leave the van and walk down the beach to the purple school bus. I stop and stare—it is covered in scripture. This will be interesting. I am called in, but not Maggie. She has to stay outside at the base of the stairs. A kid is crying in his mother's arms, young arms that are patient and earthy. She must be my age, though her husband is much older. She wears a purple one-piece dress with bleached designs that highlight milk-producing breasts. Dirty blond hair greasily hangs down to wide hips that rock to internal music for soothing children. It is his kid and looks indistinguishable like all infants but somehow I know it's his. The father smiles a half-toothed grin that is usually hidden by a black graying beard. Long gray-black locks hang past his shoulders, touching a large belly earned by hours of patiently sitting. He wears a brown sweater and old blue jeans, both ripped and loosely descending to bare feet. I look around and all are bare footed, including the ten-year-old girl with extra-red lips and fat cheeks, and the four-year-old boy with sunken eyes and rigged cheek bones. These children are definitely from different parents. We introduce ourselves, and I immediately forget their names. We did this once before on the beach, but here we are doing it again. They must have forgotten my name as well because they only call me brother.

Dinner is ready and it is time to pray. Everyone is holding hands and bowing heads, eyes closed for concentration. I am looking at them, watching them as the father leads the prayer. Feel with your heart. Picture the people, your people, the Rainbow Family..."Dear Lord, our God, bless those not with us today... (names, names, and names)... and look over them. Be with the Family in this troubled, dark time that we may be shown the wisdom to do your calling..." And there is "Amen" and the hands are released, eyes opening and heads upright, smiling. Enough of prayers for your own! Would an almighty God have will? Would it care about the vacillations of life? Eat! Eat! That is something tangible. Stomach something that will give us strength.

They have prepared beans and rice and it smells wonderful. I wait until everyone is ready to eat, waiting while my saliva grows. I eat attentively, my form of prayer, and they talk. They talk constantly about their views in life. Have I ever been to a Rainbow Family gathering? No? I should. It is the chosen family, the saved family. Tens of thousands of beautiful people all meeting on public land. Sharing and bartering. It is the economy of the future. It sounds to me like the economy of the past. And all those people camping in one location? Sounds like an environmental nightmare.

"Isn't that a huge impact on the area? Seems to me like it would take decades to recover."

"Oh, no, you would be amazed. I think it is because God is shining down on the gathering. A week later and there is not a trace. It is God's grace, I tell you."

And I should go? I eat and listen in a curious sort of way. What are their names? I feel as though I have stepped into the Dark Ages since I walked into the bus, the purple bus. The beans and rice are good, though. It is very kind of them to share. I thank them as I finish my plate. More? No thanks, I've already eaten plenty. You are all very nice. Am I Christian? No, I'm not. Should it matter? By the way, I'm not Rainbow Family, either. That family sounds like one of my nightmares. I prefer to be on a rural beach or in a lodge, alone. Oh, maybe with that woman on the beach. She is alone, too. She is my kind of person because she likes the solitude. Why? It doesn't matter.

They ask me if I want to smoke. Oh, they believe it is a gift from God. They smoke, all of them, even the oldest kid. It is not like alcohol; it is pure and real and lets you be creative, loving. What about Jesus turning water to wine? He didn't seem to have a problem with alcohol. They don't have a response, instead bringing up a new topic. The bus fills with smoke and it smells great. I love the smell of pot but I don't like to smoke because I become comatose. If they got me stoned, I would be living in their bus tonight, and I don't think that either of us wants that.

They make beaded jewelry for a living, selling it on Sixth Street in Austin. Sometimes they hit the fairs. What do I do? Nothing really. I hang out with my dog. Speaking of which, I should check on her. Wait. First they need to show me some jewelry. It is attractive in a Bohemian sort of way. Yes, it is nice jewelry and you make it here on the beach. You are working these days, getting ready for a fair. Oh, no, I don't have any money for jewelry. No, I wouldn't wear it. No, not my friends because I have none here. I am alone, you see, except for my dog. I need to check on her.

I try to leave their bus but it is hard. The place is so crowded with beds and cooking stations and work stations and stuff. Tapestries hang from the ceiling and partition the bus into rooms, each small and cluttered with life's belongings. The only way through it all is a narrow aisle that everyone stands in. Sometimes they sit on a thin bed to make more room in the aisle but the aisle is still full of patchouli-smelling humanity. I thank them all countless times and say that I must leave to check my dog but wading through the loving humanity is like leaving a surf filled with clinging seaweed. God, how to get out of this place and free from this humanity! And no books except for a worn Bible! Oh thank god to get through! Oh to leave!

I walk outside and Maggie is sitting by the steps. I almost step on her because it is dark outside and light inside. As my eyes adjust to the night, I can make out two figures. They turn and run when I step out of the purple bus. They are coyotes. I look at my dog and thank her for staying at the bus, for waiting for me. God, you are a good dog. I think of her being eaten by a pack of coyotes, flesh ripping in a desperate attempt to flee, and it almost makes me cry. I tell her that I won't leave her alone outside again, at least not at night. I will be a better companion. We walk to the van alone, quietly. There are so many stars that I feel loved. But I haven't taken good care of my dog. I don't deserve to feel so loved by the stars. Maybe I just have a contact high. Reality is a hungry dog, waiting patiently. I feed her immediately once back at the van and she eats. She eats like I ate my plate of rice and beans, attentively. Finished, she burps at me and then jumps into the bed.

(viii)

Sunrise on the beach is many things, but every time I try to describe it, I fail. It is better to simply partake of the morning and wish for nothing more. I sit on the edge of my van and listen to the surf, a killdeer, and some passing gulls. I don't know what kind they are so I pull a bird book out of the closet. I determine that they are laughing gulls, and now that I have duly named them, I seem to ignore them somewhat. It seems as though part of me died with the naming. I sit and drink coffee. The dog has explored the beach, but now is lying in the sand next to my feet. I am beginning to understand that Maggie likes to be underfoot since I always seem to be stepping over her. And a bed hog! I'm not really complaining because I truly love and accommodate it. She is training me. I drink coffee and watch the subtle changes in landscape become washed out in the sun.

This is a Texas paradise, made better by unemployment. This is only partially true. I do want a job and hopefully will find one soon, only today I am resting. Finding work can be depressing, always having to prove yourself to strangers. It is harder since I am considered a transient. I don't feel transient; I have a van and a place to park it. Employers see it differently. Maybe Maggie will convince an employer that I am a decent guy. Maggie will save the day. She already has proven herself to be capable of doing so. She will help with my sanity, my mental inconsistencies. Life seems so surreal to me on a regular basis. Sometimes I have to just sit down and stare, or take a walk without any direction or purpose. I take a drink of coffee. I never thought of Texas as heavenly before, nor did I ever think I would, but at this moment, on this beach, it feels heavenly.

(ix)

I finish my coffee in time to take Maggie for a walk. We are developing a schedule, and walking is top priority once the coffee is drunk. We walk much like the day before, in spurts. I stop to pick up objects left by the tide and she chases driftwood. The direction is only determined by the linearity of the beach. If not for the sand dunes, we might be wandering in circles. This is how little focus we have on a morning stroll. We pass the purple school bus, and later, the girl's tent, but no one is outside. Wait. Her car is gone. At least her tent is still here, at least I think it is her tent.

"Brilliant, John! She is gone. Are you sure it is her tent? Probably not and she didn't even care enough to say goodbye. You make a horrible first impression." Brian is walking behind me, nagging me. Maggie barks. He gets nervous and has left when I turn around to confront him. Oh hell, he's probably right. If I made a good first impression, I would be employed. I walk down the beach feeling depressed and confused.

I walk for an amount of time that only third world people walk anymore. Well, I guess there are hikers in the developed nations. Most Americans don't walk anymore. It is belittling. Hell, they even drive to exercise. I'm walking, confused, and talking to myself. The dog has stopped playing stick and is now exploring on her own, her nose active. I am analyzing the state of the world and why I do not fit into the social norm. It must be society's fault, not conceivably my own. How could anything be my own, even my sanity? It must be other impositions on my mental state. I suddenly realize that I am long past the point of campers, getting hungry, and desiring the comfort of my van.

We walk in our individualized worlds down the same beach. I take a chew, spitting the loose particles on the sand. Life seems to make more sense with tobacco. I have the true mentality of an addict and have become so predictable. The dog stops to smell an old fish. It stinks and she loves it, lowering her head as if to roll. I yell. It is the first time that I have yelled at her and she cowers, moving away from me. I feel like an asshole, but I don't want my van to smell like death. Sweat and mold and wet dog are fine, but not dead surf shit. I won't tolerate it. She seems to understand, avoiding me for much of the remaining walk. I step in a tar ball. Beautiful Texas. Damn Texas. I look at the beach and no longer want to be here. I want to be in the mountains, in the snow. But it is too cold to live north in a van for winter. I promise myself to return in the spring. I need to shit. I am past the point of outhouses so I go to the dunes and shit. I wipe with pieces of drift wood. The dog is looking at my dump as though it were food. She smells and licks her lips. I find her to be disgusting, truly disgusting. I tell her to come on as I walk away. Once again I use a firm, angry voice. She comes but is still disgusting. How can I let her sleep with me?

I practice breathing. Actually, this notion seems ridiculous to me now that I think about it. How can I practice doing something which is so innate? I am ridiculous. What am I trying to become and why am I wasting my time trying to become anything? I begin to see a camper in the distance. It makes me feel happy since I am ready to be in the comfort of my van again. I am quite hungry now. I think about what I have to eat, but it is boring so I think of other things. I have qualms with the fast food industry, but a cheap hamburger and fries sounds like the greatest delicacy in the world. To hell with expensive wine, fish, and vegetables. I want a greasy hamburger and fries, and I want to wash it down with a beer. What would the Rainbow Family think of that? I don't give a fuck. To hell with social correctness. I want fast food but I only have oatmeal. Damn it.

Where did she come from? I didn't see her on the horizon. How am I so blind? She is walking to me and I am so blind, but now I have eyes and can see all the secrets of the universe, at least the secrets that matter. The rest are crap or for academic types, but not for me. I wave to her but she doesn't wave back. I am such a nerd. She is stumbling upon me and dreading it. This much I know.

"Of course she is dreading you. I would too if I weren't stuck with you. Don't fuck it up this time. Definitely don't wave again. You should simply walk on by. Any attempt will be for not. For God's sake, whatever you do, don't be an idiot again." Brian always is a ray of confidence. He laughs. I can hear him laughing and I lower my head and walk along, looking at the sand in front of my feet.

The dog is not in such a state of turmoil. Maggie has a friend and that friend just happens to be beautiful. I wish she would share her friends with me, but it doesn't really matter. It is better if I simply walk by, quietly and unobtrusively. Solitude is safe.

"Hello?"

I am walking by so as not to disturb her, not to be a lech.

"Hello? You in there. How are you today?"

I look up and see her smiling. God, even her smile is graceful. I stare, and then realizing what I am doing, I look down at my feet again. Oh, yes. She asked me a question. Can I speak? What's the use?

"Is something wrong?"

"Um, no, not really. It's kinda a nice day. What's to be wrong?"

"I just thought that maybe something was wrong since you seemed to be avoiding me."

"Avoiding you? No, I just thought you might... well, I was just lost in thought is all. Sometimes I get lost in contemplation and forget to respond to life."

"Wow... yep, I know what you mean. I do that often, too. Still got the family intact, I see. She's a great dog."

"Yep, except for when she's around dead stuff and wants to roll in filth. Then she's not so great. But that's just a dog for ya."

"And I just let her lick my face."

I laugh, but then I stop myself. It's OK; she is smiling. Then I do something truly bold for me, an act that Brian would laugh about. "Do you want to come over and have some breakfast?"

She would love to. She would actually love to eat with me at my van. She would even like to talk to me because she thinks that I am interesting. She finds solitary people interesting, maybe because she is one herself. We walk slowly, the three of us. Maggie runs in circles around us, barking occasionally. The woman, slightly tall and angular in a graceful, dancing manner, walks beside me. She has fluidity to her movements; I shuffle in a drunken manner. Her knees gently protrude in white cotton pants when she bends her leg. A brown cotton sweater with blue geometry hangs loosely from strong shoulders. Long thin fingers with natural nails move longer light brown hair from an exquisite face. It is the face of a model, but not a high end one.

"I noticed your car was gone this morning when I started my walk."

"You've been gone for a while then. I went out to get breakfast. Yep, actually, I have already eaten breakfast. It's past noon now. You haven't eaten today?"

"I had coffee."

"That's not food. It's time to feed the boy."

(x)

"So this is my van." I open the sliding door and let her look inside. I point out the closets and the camper top that allows me to stand up inside. She climbs inside as if to test it for camping adequacy. What is that? Oh, that's a canvas cot. Several people can sleep in this van at once. I point out the place for another cot across the front seats. I tell her that I have slept kids up there before.

"You drove this all the way from Wyoming?"

"The Laramie area."

"I've never been to Wyoming... That's a long way in an old van... I wouldn't be so brave... It must have been cold there when you left."

It was and I brag about the temperature, then I brag that my van has no heat. This impresses her, but I later feel foolish for trying to act like a tough man. I feel childish for trying so hard to impress her. A fire? We agree to a fire and we start to collect driftwood. A fire on the beach would be great after a morning of walking. Wood is easy to find here, and in a short amount of time, we have enough for a bonfire. I don't want a bonfire, but maybe she does. I start a small fire and decide to let her regulate the fire size while I sit down in the sand.

"You should eat. You've got to be hungry."

Food, of course. I forgot all about eating. I get up to make food and ask her what she might like to eat. Why did I do that? I don't have anything but oatmeal and some peanut butter. There are some stale tortillas. She says that she's not too hungry, that I should make whatever I want to eat. Oh, sure, she will have a little. Coffee? Yes, we agree on coffee. I get out the cooking gear and light the stove. She is fascinated by the stove and asks lots of questions. I tell her how I got it. What a great story, she thinks. I seem so resourceful to her. I stop and stare at her once the water is heating, the water for coffee. She seems so interesting to me, but maybe that is because she wants to talk to me, to sit on the beach around a fire in the middle of the day. The water is boiling and I throw in my grounds. She laughs, mostly from disbelief, at my method of preparing coffee. She thought my method died at the turn of the century. She says that she has an espresso maker at home. What does she do for coffee on this beach? Oh, she has a little camping percolator. It makes good coffee. Wait until she tries mine. Hell, she will probably never drink my coffee again. Maybe she will let me try some of hers. When it is ready, I serve her coffee in my mug because it's the only mug I have.

After a few minutes. "Aren't you going to have any?"

I explain that I only have one mug. I only have one of everything but a few clothing items. I have two sweaters and two shirts. Stuff like that I have two of. But cooking stuff? I only have one of cooking stuff. I start to make oatmeal in my one pot after I throw out the coffee grounds. Oatmeal for noon? Sure, why not? I don't tell her that it is all I have to eat, nor how poor I am, nor that I get hungry, nor that I dip snuff and drink coffee to curb the hunger. I don't tell her that I am tired of oatmeal and Ramen but that I never get tired of peanut butter. What would she think of food stamps? Instead of mentioning it, I make breakfast while she shares the coffee with me.

"So, what did you do in Wyoming? Why here?"

She seems fascinated by the old lodge in the mountains. It is beautiful like this place, but in a different way. We talk about why I left. She agrees with me that ethics seem to be decaying in modern America. There is too much emphasis on short term profits. We are quite egocentric in America. I talk too much and she now knows that I am broke. Well, that's not true. I have $40. Tomorrow I will have more money for food. Tomorrow I will eat well, but I don't tell her that. I just tell her that they stiffed me and that I ran south, looking for a warm place to wait out the summer. It's January and, to her, January means cold, even on a Texas beach. To me this is perfect weather, sunny and cool with a little breeze. Is this Nirvana? It is easier for me to picture this setting as Nirvana than a setting such as the job service line. I know that both are Nirvana, but I prefer this one. That attachment is going to lead to suffering. Right now, I don't care. I am smiling around her. I don't know if I smile often—probably not, but I am now.

"You said that you are between jobs in Austin. What did you do? What will you do? You can answer in that order if you prefer. Or you can just lie to me. I won't know the difference."

She smiles and then looks at the fire. Her smile is an eternity and I get behind the lips, perfect white teeth, and into the heavenly space that they invite. I catch myself staring and look away but it is painful to do so, so I return to her once again. Then I notice her coffee is gone, and she places the mug in the sand. She stands, walks to the pile of driftwood, and throws some sticks on the fire. The fire is getting bigger now but it is still a reasonable fire. It isn't ostentatious. She returns to the same spot she was sitting before and sits.

"The oatmeal is finished. Do you want any?"

"No to the last question. Thank you, though. The first question. I was working on a master's degree at the university. I was a lab mole, working with toxic solutions and gels in order to look at DNA fragments. I had to be very anal with everything I did in the lab because there were constant concerns about contamination, so everything had to be precise. The second question. I am going to work as a research assistant in a molecular biology lab. It is all still at the university. I'm not like you. I haven't left the academic bubble."

"Wow, that's impressive. Molecular stuff. It doesn't sound like you enjoy it, though."

"It's a love-hate relationship between me and molecular work. I don't know. People can do some amazing stuff now. When I think about the overall process and what I'm trying to accomplish, it's very exciting. But the daily existence can be tedious and frustrating. Besides, I live inside a lab most of the time. That is why I am on this beach for a month. I want to be outside and not think about academia. Did you ever go to college?"

"Oh, just for a couple of years. I didn't know what I was doing there, so I dropped out. It was in New Orleans. I had a car and some stuff. I sold the car and gave away the stuff. I moved into my camping gear and started hitchhiking to Alaska. I don't know. I didn't see the point of college then. Now I think that it would be interesting to go back, but I'd have to settle down first. I haven't been very successful at doing that since I left New Orleans." I pause for a few minutes and watch the flames. The colors of burning driftwood are plentiful at night. Now it just looks like a fire. "What kind of stuff did you do your graduate work on?"

"Oh, just some population biology stuff on an animal that most folks don't care about. I really don't want to talk about it. I am really trying to forget about a lot of things on this trip. I have always done the safe thing and maybe I'm tired of always doing the safe thing. What you've done sounds like living, like truly living on the social edge. You seem liberated."

"Maybe crazy is a better term. Harmless but crazy. Sometimes I don't think it matters what we do. Perspective is the hard thing to grasp. You can probably do that anywhere. People still have preferences, though. I know I do. Perspective. That's the hard one."

"What do you mean, perspective?"

"It is the only thing that you own. Even it is constantly changing. Not ideas. Most ideas are simply borrowed, but perspective is different. It includes mental state with action, even if your action is inaction. Perspective helps us to love."

"What about a soul?"

"A soul? I don't buy it. I don't think there is anything fixed that transcends this moment and life. I just don't buy it. But hell, I could be wrong. You?"

"I don't believe in a soul, either. I guess I'm a naturalist at heart, a true biologist. I don't know if we own perspective or not. I see your argument, but I haven't thought much about it. I'll have to think about it and get back to you later."

"Will there be a later?"

"I think so. I'm hanging out for a while longer, and you are always hanging out. But you are going to work someday. You'll still have time in the evenings. We can talk then."

"If I can find work."

"You will. I have faith that you will."

"Faith in what?"

"In you. You've made it on the road this long; you'll make it again. Some might call you blessed, but I don't believe in God. I won't call you blessed. You will find a job, though."

I look down and the oatmeal is gone. I hope she didn't want any. She said that she didn't. I pour some water in the pan, start the stove again, and begin heating water to clean my bowl and mug. More coffee? No. I don't have soap so I get the water hot enough to kill most things. Hot and scrub and swirl around and dump. I dump it by the dunes, away from my van. She sits, listening to the fire crack above the sound of the surf. A brown pelican glides by; so far I have been seeing white pelicans, but this one is brown. She comments on it. I take a dip of snuff before returning to the fire, swallowing the juice when in company. I feel like I could go to a restaurant and eat for an hour, but I have some Copenhagen instead.

A large American station wagon creeps down the beach. Is it him? Yes, it is him. Maroon car with fake wood paneling on the sides is driven by a tall, skinny man wearing gloves. I can't remember his name. I just know him as the piano man. He slowly pulls up and stops in front of the fire. He has electric windows and he rolls the passenger window down. His dog is in the passenger seat and Maggie comes over to greet his dog, jumping on the door so they may properly sniff noses. It is better to watch than the butt sniff.

"Who's your new friend? Both of them." He smiles in a tight-jawed sort of way that makes the smile seem psychotic. He is slouching so that he can look at us across the inside of his car. I walk to the window and lean in. Maggie has left, satisfied.

"Oh, the dog is Maggie and the girl is a resident." I shouldn't have told him that.

"Is the dog hers?"

"Nope, mine...Went to find a job and found a dog instead."

"I'm sorry. Damn dog of mine bringing me parasite infested birds. I can see the parasites crawl up my nose, spreading their joy. I should be of a culture that eats dogs instead of feeding them." His mouth contorts dramatically as he talks. Once he pauses, he resumes that tight-jawed smile that scares me. And there is a saliva problem. It forms in the corners of his mouth when he talks. You have to keep some distance because saliva sometimes flies in random directions.

She gets up to say hello. I try to warn her away with a back glance, but it doesn't work. She is too polite for this guy. What am I saying? She can probably handle him better than I can. I'm the one who is too polite. It's that southern thing. I also have a curious nature, though, and wonder how bazaar an interaction will become.

"Well, hello. Who are you? I've already met the dog and I didn't want to. You're on this beach a little too early to be a college student. Where are you from?"

"I'm Cathy. It doesn't matter where I'm from or what I do. And you?"

"I'm Al. It DOES matter what I do because I'm a pianist, a jazz pianist, and it is a very important thing to be."

"It is if you like jazz."

"What other music is there?"

"Countless types, but I sometimes listen to jazz. Do you have a piano on the beach?"

"No, but I do have one in my mind. It is the second best thing to have."

"Very true. Well, have a nice day."

"Yes, it will be a fucking great day now that you have reminded me that I no longer have a piano to play. It is soooo nice to meet you." Here is the smile again. What a smile. "Nice friend you got there, John. How this beach can be hell! But you seem happy today. Got your little friends around a camp fire. Very picturesque. I'll leave you to your fun. Goodbye." He rolls up his window and drives away, slowly.

"John, I think it is time to go back to my camp. Thank you so much for the company."

"The company was nice. Better than the pianist's," I say.

"What a freak. A little dark to say the least. I have a feeling that he has AIDS. Maybe I'm wrong, but maybe?"

She gracefully walks down the beach in the direction of her camp. At least I have her name. Cathy.

## IV

(i)

"Give the government the authority to control guns, and there won't be anyone left to challenge the government. We need to take arms, modern arms, and stand up to this damn government which has run out of control. I want them to be terrified of me and those that think like me. If they're scared, maybe they will try to protect my rights so I don't blow up the White House."

I can't believe what I'm hearing. Does anyone truly believe that a band of whacks will take over the US government? I look at him, his face stern, and begin to laugh. He sees that I am laughing at him and he begins to get angry. I think he is perpetually angry but now maybe he will go ballistic. I want to see what will happen, so I talk to him. Others are avoiding him, but I decide to talk. "If you hate the government so much, why are you in line here using government services? I don't think anyone is going to overthrow our government because it has too much support. I hate to inform you, but I think you are in the minority with your opinions."

"You're one of those goddamn peace lovers that don't realize what true freedom really is. You ain't fought for your country. I have, buddy, but I don't like to see where it is headed now. If it were left to people like you, all freedom would disappear."

"Excuse me, you're next."

"I don't like you and..."

"If you don't go, I will."

"I'm going. I deserve this because I've paid my dues. I bet you haven't paid for nothing. I have."

I start to walk to the desk, but he grabs my arm, pulling me back. He is a large man, 30 pounds overweight with thin legs and large arms. His fat face is in a permanent frown and he wrinkles his nose as he looks at me. He walks ahead. I stand, waiting for the next desk of sunshine. And here it comes. Hello. Yes, I'm back because I haven't found any work yet. Can I work for what company? Where is it? No, I can't drive that far in a day. I live on the beach and my car isn't reliable to commute that far, especially in traffic. Well, thanks for your time. Return tomorrow? Why?

I walk out of job services, hoping to avoid the militia. No one is in the parking lot, only cars. Maggie is in the passenger seat when I open the driver's door. She jumps up quickly, as if coming to attention. She seems to be smiling. What are you smiling about? Oh, yes, we have food stamps now and you are hoping to get some meat. Isn't that what I promised? We will shop later and you will not be disappointed.

I want to leave the parking lot, to find a convenience store with today's newspaper and fresh snuff. I am out of Copenhagen and I am curious about the classifieds. If I were a business man, and I were looking for an employee, would I run an ad in the newspaper? It seems quite desperate to me. I drive a short distance to a convenience store, first putting in a chew and then opening the paper. Classifieds. Is anyone desperate? The list is short, surprisingly short for this large of a town. Most of the jobs are skilled, and having no marketable skills, I am completely unqualified. Here's one. Telemarketing. It is near here. I hate phones. Haven't had a phone in six years and hope to die without ever having one again. If I had a house and a phone, would I want random people calling me to peddle some service or cause? Hell no. I would get nasty on the phone and tell the telemarketer to go to hell or get another job, whichever comes first.

Sure, what the hell, I'll give it a try.

(ii)

The place is in a strip mall, most of the stores now abandoned. The windows are covered with brown paper, but I find the door, a single door with a small sign. This must be it. I walk to the curb and spit out my chew before entering the place. It is dark, slightly lit with florescent bulbs, and it smells like cigarettes. There is a makeshift office with a woman behind the desk. She is talking on the phone between sips of coffee and drags off a cigarette. She motions for me to wait a moment, just one moment please. There is chatter in the back, the lit back. A woman emerges from the lit back to the dim front, looking tired. She smiles faintly and goes into the bathroom. I stand in the hallway and wait patiently. I would leave but I have no place to go. There is the beach, but I feel like I need a job, even this job.

I am hired immediately. There are no questions asked. What kind of stuff am I selling? I won't be selling anything; I will be trying to get money for some heart association. Which one? I haven't heard of it, but that doesn't mean anything. I know nothing about charities, never having enough money to be a philanthropist. How much do I make? There is a pathetic hourly wage and a bonus for contributions above $100. How long will the shift be? Four hours and I can start now.

I am led into the back room by the large woman who just left the toilet. We go into a small room well lit with florescent bulbs, the walls covered with mirrors. Tables line the walls, and the phones are spaced a few feet apart. There are folding chairs at each phone. Presently there are four people in the room, all selling the same pitch over and over again. They don't face each other; they face an image of themselves in the mirror. How can anyone think above all this noise? She gives me the pitch and a list of people to call. I have to be energetic and to do this I need to look at myself in the mirror, smiling while I talk. Look happy, look enthused. I can do it! At least this is the garbage I am told. It is one of the most surreal and depressing scenes I have ever experienced. Oh well, what the hell. I can take a break whenever I need one. Success is up to me. Look at Jim over there; he just got his bonus tonight. I can too.

$100 for some heart charity. I can do that within an hour, no problem. At least I'm not pushing some appliance or insurance or a thousand other things that people push over the phone. I make my first call. Nothing. I try the next one. They answer and are quite rude. That's how I would be if I owned a phone, but I don't and hope I never will. Maybe my sales pitch wasn't smooth and sincere. I try again, watching myself while I talk, attempting to smile. I feel as though I am in a dream, a bad dream about purgatory. I can't watch myself while I talk on the phone. It is too strange for a hippy living in a van on a beach. I stop trying my sales pitch and look at myself in the mirror, honestly this time. Damned if I don't feel like a whore. I wish I were selling phone sex; that would at least be amusing. I have a chew; the others are smoking so maybe tobacco use helps with heart charity contributions. I go through countless rejections.

"John, if you don't mind some tips. I've been doing this for five years, one town to another, living in motels. I know how to do this. You pause too much. If they start to hesitate, just talk faster and push the main points. Make them feel good about contributing. Watch yourself in the mirror and be more positive and emotional on the phone. You'll get it. It just takes some practice."

I look at her in disbelief. "Five years, one town to another, living in motels?"

"Yep, and I've learned a few things doing it. Just practice what I told you and you will get your bonus. I promise."

I must still have a look of disbelief. She laughs at me and goes back to her phone across the room. She is a big woman for this size of a room so she doesn't have to take many steps. I listen to the others, concentrating on individual conversations. She is right; they don't pause at all but keep on plugging in a positive manner. I wonder what phone sex conversations would sound like. I'm sure they wouldn't sound as pathetic as what I'm listening to now. I watch my coworkers. They are smiling, moving in their seats, playing a role. I take a deep breath and dial a number. It is a woman, middle-aged with kids in the background. I attempt to mimic my coworkers, and for a moment I actually forget what I am doing. I just do it and she stays on the phone with me for a couple of minutes. Of course she doesn't make a contribution and I don't blame her. At the end of the conversation, I tell her I agree with her decision and would make the same one.

"So why are you doing it?"

"I'm asking myself that same question. Hey, you have a good night." I hang up.

I decide I need to take a piss, but mostly I want to leave the mirror. I haven't looked at myself this much since early adolescence. I stop by the office, the lone office, and the boss is off the telephone. I have been working for less than an hour and it is time to quit. "How long have you been doing this?"

"Five years, same as Beth in there." That's the big woman with the fast, positive pitch. "We come into a town and stay there until we meet our contribution goals. This has been a hard town and it is taking us longer than expected." She lights a cigarette and takes a deep drag.

"Do you ever get a day off?"

"I do once we meet our goal. This time I won't, though, because we are running over our expected time frame and we need to get working in another town." She gets up to pour herself another cup of weak coffee. She looks at me for a few seconds. "If you decide to stay, I need you to do some paperwork. Better get back to it if you want to make the bonus."

I look at her between the curls of smoke coming from her hand. She is in her 30's but looks 60, thin and sagging and hunched over a paper-cluttered desk in a room lit only by a single desk lamp. Her clothes are cheap polyester, and though washed, look like an ash tray. There are black circles under her sunken eyes, making a beaked-nose seem exceptionally large. I force a smile and leave. I go to the toilet and wash my hands and face. Closing the door, walking the hallway, I feel like I am in a sentencing with prison as my future. The prison cell is the mirror-lined, well lit room with faces only known to mirrors. I sit in the metal chair and rub my eyes before proceeding. There is a film on the table and phone, a film from smoke and sweat. I take my time. I know that I will quit this job, but I feel like making one more call. I don't know why I don't just walk away now, the experience being worth my time, not knowing if I can experience much more. One more call. I just want to see if I can make one sell, one contribution to whatever this charity is. I walk slowly down the hall, feeling every step that I make. I feel stoned but I don't feel comatose. I enter the light, the mirrors, and the chatter. I sit in my folding chair. What an uncomfortable chair for a phone peddler.

The man that answers is old; it is obvious from his voice. I feel embarrassed to ask him for money because I feel as though we should be making a donation to him. I tell him what I'm doing, but explain that he shouldn't feel obliged to contribute. He feels obliged, but I discourage him. Instead we talk about his life. His wife is dead, as are most of his friends. Once he was active and sociable, but now things are quiet and lonely. He gets lonely these days, hours spent in the house alone. We talk about college football, but it is he who is doing most of the talking. I just ask questions because I haven't watched college football in a few years. Once, I loved to watch and follow college ball. I can understand his excitement about the game, but I am out of touch. I ask the questions and he gives me the details. There is an hour's worth of details. I am finally enjoying my job, but I don't think this is what my boss wants me to do on company time. After an hour, my ear is tired and sweaty. I say goodbye and goodbye again and goodbye again. Finally, I hang up.

I leave the mirrored whore house and proceed to the dimly lit office. No, I don't need to fill out any paperwork. Yes, I am quitting after two hours. No, I didn't get one contribution and I'm not willing to give it another try. Am I surprised? No, I hate phones. I walk out the door, the door covered with brown paper. I see my van, my home, and suddenly I do not feel so desperate. I have food stamps and it is time to buy some meat for me and the dog. I want fish but I think she will want some kind of beef. The store, off to the store and away from mirrors and self-smiling faces.

## V

(i)

My home in the line of vehicles on the state beach seems to be reserved for me. This is my spot of sand, and in it, I am one of the full timers, the residents. Mark is home; I can hear him cussing to himself in his pop up camper next to my van. His muscle car is parked at an angle to the beach vehicle line. It looks as though he was in a hurry to get home, but maybe he hates the linearity of the beach today. Regardless, his car stands out in our crowded line of camping vehicles. If the National Seashore seems rural, this state beach seems more like a trailer park. My neighbors are more like roommates than neighbors and it is obvious when any one of us leaves the beach. Mark emerges from the canvas home on wheels. He has a cast on his left arm.

"Where the hell have you been? I was beginning to think you had left this place for good. Just loaded up that old VW and poked down the highway to brighter spots."

"Nope. Just the National Seashore for a few..."

"Who are you?" Maggie has emerged from under the van, first barking but now wagging her tail. "I love dogs. Is this yours?"

"I guess. Or I'm hers. Picked her up from a guy at the job service place. Didn't find a job, but got the dog. Name's Maggie."

"She's beautiful. Help you watch your van on this beach. Can get rough at times." He lifts up his arm to show me his fight medal. "I broke my damn hand on a guy's face the other day. He was parked in your spot and I told him that he would have to leave when you returned, mostly cause he was getting on my nerves. He was loud and playing some damn country music real loud too. He started mouthing off when I told him to shut up. He wasn't like you. He was a pain in the ass and started mouthing off. He started acting all tough like a big guy. He was big but he was a pussy. I ain't gonna put up with that shit so I broke his jaw. Left him crying like a baby 'cause I got him good. One punch and he was down. Didn't know what he was messing with. I showed him what he was messing with."

Mark is in his usual black t-shirt with his only jacket over it. It must be hard to pull that black leather jacket over the cast. It must be hard to do anything with that cast on his arm. Maybe that is why he was cussing so much in his camper. What am I talking about? He always cusses to himself. Now, standing in front of me while I cook, he is smiling. He has a genuine smile that emerges from a bearded face, but most of the time you can only see his eyes amid a face camouflaged by unkempt hair. His eyes are a piercing light blue and they immediately tell a stranger that he is tough and mean. They made me nervous when I first met him, but his smile is gentle and genuine. His smile will draw you in but his eyes will make you cautious.

"What the hell are you doing going to that job center? I told you that it's a waste of your time. You shoulda been here, stopping in where I work. Give up on that job place. Just keep showing up every day and one of these days they will hire you. Show up ready to work."

"I talked to Steve a few days ago, and he said they didn't need anyone for a month or so."

"Don't listen to that idiot. He don't know shit. He just talks on the phone and arranges plants. He don't do shit. Talk to Jason. He's the one that you'd be working for. I've already talked to him about you. Put in a good word."

"Thanks. I thought Steve was a co-owner."

"He is but he's kinda queer. Jason don't like him and they never talk. Like I said, talk to Jason 'cause he's the one that will give you a job. Stay away from Steve."

"How about you and work? Can you work with that cast?"

"Oh, I make out fine. It's a little harder, but I can still do my job. Ain't nobody taking my job away from me just cause I busted up someone's face."

My fish is finished so I take the skillet off my little burner. I place it in the van and begin to steam some vegetables in the pot, light steaming so they remain crispy. I like my vegetables crispy and not Texas soggy. The dog is now begging but I get her to lay down instead of standing over me, drooling. I am feeling less confused and more coherent now than in the grocery store. I had to get out of that grocery store, but I managed to buy some food before leaving. Talking to Mark is helping to pull me back to a functional normality.

"I don't have very much, but you are welcome to have some of this fish."

"No, thanks, man. You eat. I got something going on the stove inside. Speaking of which, I should return before I burn my camper down. Just start showing up at the job site every day. You'll get something there. Like I said, I put in a word for you."

(ii)

I turn off the burner and take a deep breath. This is the best food I have had in weeks. I sit in the sand with the skillet of fish and the pot of vegetables in front of me. I take a bite of the fish and savor it. It is no longer hot, but it is not yet cold. It is better than edible. I eat some broccoli and carrots, happily crunching. For days I have thought of this meal, of the perfect meal. Reality is not as perfect as my imagination, but it is still pretty good. I eat and the dog begs.

"I bet you want some of that steak. Maggie want some steak?"

The dinner is finished too quickly to be savored. The skillet and the pot are empty, now cold and depressingly empty. That was it? Oh well. I pick up the skillet and go into the van, digging through bags for the steak. It is a cheap steak, probably tough, but I know that the dog won't care. She is drooling. As I light the stove, the dog jumps back. She is quickly learning to hate my stove, especially the slight explosion of fuel when I begin to prime it. She is several feet away. I cook it quickly, just fry it gray. I'm not a chef for the dog; I'm simply an extension of the stove. There is no talent in my cooking, just burn it and serve it. I cut it up into bite size pieces and let it cool. While it cools, I salt and eat some of the pieces because I am still hungry. I was right; it is tough. I get tired of chewing and spit out a chewed piece. The dog won't care. I fill her bowl with some dog food and then add the steak on top. She eats it more quickly than I ate mine. We didn't savor; we inhaled. Once done, she walks to me, burps and jumps into the van. I feel disappointed. I thought it would be different.

(iii)

I hear Ben. He is telling me that I am a Neanderthal. I look for his grey head combed perfectly, even in the wind, but I don't see him. What does a middle aged business man know about life on a beach? I guess he could live in a beach house, but I don't think he could make it in a van. Maybe I am becoming a Neanderthal. I definitely feel as though I am in survival mode, but survival is never boring. A beach house would be boring.

"A beach house would be civilized. You seem to have lost your civility. Don't you remember your upbringing? Don't you remember how to live properly? A van is not a home." He always dresses the same and it looks ridiculous on this beach. There is a maroon tie, loosened for the end of the day, a starched white shirt and gray cotton suit. And those shoes—lace up black leather shoes, polished to perfection, now collecting light brown sand. I always want to mess with his perfectly parted gray hair, but he is forever out of reach.

I think about my upbringing, the private school and the country club. If my classmates could see me now they would snobbishly dismiss me. Maybe I am a Neanderthal. I wish I had some ice cream or a candy bar. A civilized man would have such things. I had planned on buying dessert at the grocery store, but things got too bazaar. I had bought the tortillas and the meat. I had bought some fresh vegetables and several cans of beans. I was drinking complimentary coffee, bland. Things were fine until I saw an overweight lady in the pasta aisle.

"Damn you're fat. How did you get so fat?"

It was just a thought but I heard it over the speakers. She looked at me and stared with a hurt expression on her face. She heard my thought and she wasn't supposed to. It was just a thought from some unemployed young man who really knows nothing. But there it was in the pasta aisle, broadcast for her to hear, for her self-image to be further crushed. I had to walk away, but as I walked I heard another thought.

"Most of you people, yes, you people, have miserable lives. God, you seem so boring. Do you really think that these food decisions are important? Do something important! Wake up!"

Now everyone in the store was either looking at me or trying to avoid me. A mother pulled her child away from me. I wouldn't hurt your child. I walked down another aisle, pushing my cart that I had hoped to fill with food, but shopping had become too strange for me to deal. Was I losing my mind? Omnipotence can be a nightmare. Is that what I was experiencing? If not, how the hell did my thoughts become broadcast? Maybe they were planted. If so, from whom? I walked to the checkout. People were looking at or avoiding me, but everyone knew what I was thinking. It was my turn at the checkout.

"Did you find everything OK?"

I stared at her. Of course she already knew my answer because she could hear it. She asked it again but then she looked away. She was nervous and wanted to rush me through the line. She wanted me to leave the store so that my thoughts wouldn't dominate the speakers. She wanted top 40 to return. She told me a price but I couldn't figure out the food stamps. I had forgotten how to do basic math. God, I had taken calculus but now I had returned to grade school. I handed her my book of food stamps and let her figure it out. She smiled nervously, mostly wanting me to leave. She handed me back the unused food stamps and some change in real money. I walked out of the door, quickly. I didn't know what I had bought. Fortunately I had bought dinner before things became too psychotic. Unfortunately, I hadn't bought a candy bar.

(iv)

The oil driller pulls up in his little blue Mazda pickup. It runs strong, but is rusting apart from the salt. It is rusting like all the cars. Mark's car isn't rusting anymore because he just painted it jet black. It is only a matter of time, though. The oil driller, driving, is walking his dog. He loves his dog, always talking to it and buying it hamburgers from town. His dog, I forget its name, runs to my van, smelling Maggie. Maggie doesn't want to be sociable, and growls to claim her territory. His dog backs off, running to the surf instead.

"Got a message today about possible work in West Texas. Six new wells to be drilled and they called me for the job. I'm the best damn driller they got. Maybe I'll head off this beach soon and make some more money. I could use some more money. You found work yet?"

"Nope."

He has a small RV, old and rusting, down the beach. He is drinking a beer and has more in the passenger seat, but he doesn't offer to share. His beer hand rests on his protruding belly and his smile is as big as his nose. He talks about drilling and investing money properly. I don't understand what he is talking about and care even less. I half-listen as I clean my cook ware. He is bragging about the money he has made in the Texas oil fields. He has made money and continues to find work even though the oil market has plummeted. He reminds me that this is because he is so good at what he does. His dog is waiting patiently.

"That girl still hanging out with you?"

"Oh, I see her here and again. Sometimes she stays with me. Got a nice tight body. You should see her naked. Probably been a while since you've had some of that."

"Obvious, eh?" I say.

"Well, gotta walk the dog."

He drives away, slowly so that his beer doesn't spill. It is a full one from the front seat, part of his six pack for the walk. I haven't seen the girl in some time. She showed up a couple of weeks ago with two guys. They were packed in a small foreign hatchback and they had no money. She is tall and likes to show off her body even though it is January. She has a very flirtatious manner of speaking. The three of them live in a two person tent that leaks when it rains hard. Maybe that is what drove her to sleep with the oil driller. I know she sits nude around his RV all day long, drinking his beer and smoking his dope. It must be more comfortable than the tent. I thought he was just trying to brag, fabricate a rumor to elevate his position on the beach, but I saw her in there one day. She was waving for me to come inside, her tities bouncing as she pleaded. I kept walking but I noticed her bouncing tits. The oil driller's truck was gone and she was there alone. I wonder if the two guys she arrived with ever get lonely in that tent without her. Sometimes she goes back to the tent, but only for a couple of days. Then she finds her way back into the oil driller's RV. I don't think she has to plead with him. He smiles a lot when she is around. Otherwise, he is often quite depressed.

(v)

I need an outhouse so I walk down the beach to the nearest one. I prefer to shit in an outhouse, but not the chem toilets on the beach. The stench of chemical toxicity permeates my pores after sitting in one for more than a minute. I fantasize about a mountain outhouse in the Wet Mountains of southern Colorado. I can feel the cool and damp morning air of that place, keeping the organic smells to a tolerable level. But on this humid beach, no earthy smells greet me at the outhouse door, only that of blue sanitizer. The door shuts; I can't prop it open as I could in that mountain outhouse. Trapped, imprisoned, anxious, vulnerable. I want a valley filled with flowers, but I get adolescent graffiti. Finished, the door opens and a slight breeze pushes against it. Damp salt air, a rotting drum, tar, trash—home. As I walk I wave to a few of my beach roommates. We don't really know each other; we simply wave out of politeness. John passes again on his dog walk. I get the vision of a beached jelly fish. The girl is with him now and she smiles as she waves. I smile back.

What the hell am I going to do? I feel like I've been smoking dope and am having a hard time thinking clearly. I return to my van, the door open and the dog still waiting on the bed. She didn't move an inch while I was away, her loyalty surprising me. We haven't known one another for a week yet, but she already seems quite happy to be with me. I can't imagine life without her. It must have been lonely.

Night on the state beach doesn't feel as safe as at the National Seashore. I spend a lot of time in my van, the curtains pulled shut. On the National Seashore, I often have a fire, but here I simply retreat to my van. There is a good light in the van and I read by it. I am finally reading the newspaper that I bought earlier, lying in bed under a sleeping bag. I read each article slowly because there is really nothing else to do. Maggie snores. When I finish reading, my eyes tired, I remember why I seldom buy newspapers.

(vi)

The next morning is similar to my previous morning on this beach, but now there is a dog. Maybe it is nothing like that previous morning. How is it similar? I think. There is coffee with the sunrise. During morning coffee, the beach doesn't seem as crowded as it will by 9:00 am. I sit, breathing and drinking coffee. There is no hurry; there is no job to get ready for. One hand is around the cup's handle; the other is on top of the cup. It is an attempt to preserve the heat in the cup. I don't know if it helps, but it is a habit I have developed. I sit, breathing and drinking coffee, hoping to preserve heat. That's how it is similar. It is different, though, because the dog is on the bed, waiting. The dog seems to know when my coffee is finished. She perks up as I put away the cup.

"Let's go for a walk." She is up and ready, suddenly spastic. We walk near the surf, past the line of campers. Maggie finds a stick; the stick is spasmolytic. I throw and she chases—this is our routine and we are training one another. She is focused and all her movements are precise, but I am absentminded and my throws are erratic. I stop to pick up a bottle on the beach. It has obviously been at sea and I look inside hoping to find a note. Where is my head? Grade school? I toss the bottle back into the surf, not wanting to be a 24 year old child. Oh, right. I have a job. I throw the stick countless times. We slowly progress down the beach until I suddenly decide to change course. I continue to throw the stick so Maggie doesn't notice that we are returning to the van.

The van is covered with dew and I get damp as I brush its side. I fill the backpack with soap and razor, deodorant and a clean shirt. I brush my teeth before leaving the van, spitting white toothpaste on the brown sand. We walk down the line of campers, past the pier, and to the bath house. It is always cold inside and today is no different, the water being as cold as the air. I'm sure it feels great in July, but it is miserable in January. While I clean myself for a potential job, the dog waits patiently outside, smelling the fishy sent that permeates the pier area.

We walk down the road that leads away from the beach and dead ends into the island's main road. We walk past birds and grass and dunes. What kind of birds are they? I wish I had my bird book with me. Maggie runs through the dunes, chasing rabbits. I encourage her, hoping she will have the pleasure of killing one. Would she eat it? I hope so. I remember the excitement of killing birds, birds to eat. A duck would taste wonderful right now. I look about for birds to hunt, but I only see gulls. A gull would taste terrible. Poaching on the National Seashore with my shotgun? There are tons of ducks in the lagoon, but I stop myself from entertaining such thoughts. What a huge fine that would be! Unethical? Maybe, but I don't really care about that right now. Tomorrow I may have a different opinion.

I call Maggie and put her on a leash. I feel uncomfortable with her around traffic. Beach traffic is slow, except for Mark's muscle car, but now we walk on the side of the road, on the sandy shoulder, until I get to the promised store. I tie Maggie to a post in the front of the store and pull my hair into a pony tail before entering.

(vii)

"Is Jason in?"

"You want Steve or Jason? This is about a job, right?"

"Yep, Cindy. Jason please."

She makes a call and tells me that he will be with me shortly. I wait for ten or fifteen minutes, basically an eternity when you are trying to find work. A thin guy about my height comes into the store. He walks at a running pace and looks about the store as if he were on speed. Cindy points to me, the only other person in the store, and he rushes over, stopping two feet from me.

"Hi, I'm John and I was told to talk to you..."

"About work, right? Live on the beach next to Mark. Thought you would have come in sooner."

"I did. I talked to Steve and he told me nothing would be open..."

"Steve don't know shit. I'm the one that does the hiring. When can you work?"

"Soon as possible. Today."

"Don't need you today, but I've got this shipment of palm trees coming in. How long will you be around here?"

"A couple of months. I can work a couple of months."

"That will be fine. You see, I need someone to help plant these trees when they come in. Probably a couple of months' worth. Come in drunk or late and you're fired. Right away. Got it?"

"I'll be here, don't have to worry about that. And I'm not much of a..."

"Tell you what. These trees come in and you can work. Don't need you until they come in, but once they are in, I need them in the ground. Just keep checking in with ME, not Steve, and you can work when they come in." He is beginning to storm away. I chase him.

"When do you expect them?"

"What?"

"The trees. When do you expect them to be here?"

"Sometime in the next week. Just start stopping by here every day. Don't worry about the next couple of days, though. They won't be here that soon. I gotta run. Very busy. You just stop back by."

I walk outside, smiling, and untie my dog. I give her a big hug and she licks my face, tail wagging. We walk back toward the beach, but this time we are almost skipping. The pace is fast and our motions are exaggerated. What was the wage? Hell, it doesn't really matter. I felt desperate fifteen minutes ago, but now I feel content, predictably so.

## VI

(i)

The piano man waves as I drive past his compound where there are lawn chairs, coolers, a small white camper, and a station wagon surrounding a camp fire. I only see smoke, no flames. His small dog runs past the fire to the edge of the compound, barking. Maggie sits in the passenger seat but doesn't bark. The piano man, yelling in vain at his dog, waves for me to stop but I just wave back and proceed down the beach. He is the last person I want to see right now. There is one person, however, that I would dearly love to see. A lone person walks near the surf. Is it her? I get excited so I drive a little faster, shifting into second gear. The person is distant, stopping occasionally to pick up shells. She would do that; she loves to walk alone near the surf, picking up shells and other beach items. But as I approach, I realize that this lone beach walker is smaller and stouter than Cathy. I look as I drive past just to make sure. Who knows? Maybe she shrank and gained weight in the past 48 hours. It is the oldest girl from the purple bus. She looks nothing like Cathy. Do I even remember what Cathy looks like? The girl waves as I pass.

(ii)

When I walked back to the state beach, a couple of hours ago, Bernie was looking inside my van through the windshield. What in the hell was he doing looking inside? Maybe he was just seeing if I was home. His van was parked beside mine, sputtering. It died as I approached.

"What's up, Bernie? Need something?"

"Oh... hey... man... Good... to... see... you... Life... OK?"

"What are you doing looking inside my van?"

"Oh... that... Just... trying... to see... if... you... were... home... That's all... Nothing... more... man."

"Well, I'm here now. What do you want?"

"You... got... a... dog... Is... it... nice?"

"Can be or can't be, depending on who's around."

He whistled but Maggie ignored him.

"She's... pretty... dog... Did... you... ever... get... the... food... stamps?"

"Sure did. Thanks for the tip. Looks like I've found a job, too."

"Great... man... Hey... since... you... got a... job... and... all... maybe... you... maybe... spare... ten... bucks... in... food... stamps."

He was drunk and it wasn't noon yet. I couldn't believe he was hitting me up for money already since he knew I was almost completely broke when I last talked to him. Maybe he forgot, being a drunk on disability. I told him no and then I told him that I was about to leave the beach. I asked him if he wanted to talk to me about anything else, but he didn't. I was pissed. I didn't try to explain my decision. There was no need to. I got in my van and drove off the beach, then down the main road toward town.

I had a coupon for one of the fast food burger places and I decided it was time to treat myself. I ordered the discount burger and large fries. A soda sounded good, but I felt like saving my money so I drank water. It was cold water and it tasted better than the water in my van. Maybe it was the ice or maybe I had shitty water in the van. I wasn't sure, but it did taste good while I waited for my lunch. There was a newspaper on a table. The food on the table looked finished so I took the paper to another table, claiming it as my own. My order was up. I put extra ketchup on both the burger and fries. I took one bite of the burger, and before I finished chewing that bite, I took another. I shoved hot fries, dripping in ketchup, into my mouth, often hitting my face first. I licked my fingers before eating more of the burger. This seemed more satisfying than the fish dinner. What kind of fish was that? Flounder, yes, it was flounder. I was happier about that greasy fast food meal than about my nutritious dinner last night. Maybe most Americans would feel the same way. I ate that meal fast and looked around my table for any fries left by fellow fast food advocates. Nothing. There was nothing left to do but read the newspaper. I sat at the table for an hour, reading the paper and drinking cold water. I discovered lemon juice on my last refill trip and put some of that in my water. I wondered why I hadn't seen it in the beginning.

(iii)

Now I am back on the National Seashore, waving to my neighbors. They feel like neighbors and not roommates. The atmosphere here is much more relaxed and rural. I pull into an empty section of beach and prepare the van for camping. The top goes up and the sleeping gear is draped over the front doors, which are open, in hopes of airing it out. Sand is brushed back to the beach, temporarily separating my living quarters from the actual beach. Tomorrow the inside of my van will return to virtual beach, and the day after it will return to actual beach. Now it is separate. There is plenty of drift wood nearby and I begin to collect it, piling it in front of the van. Maggie is chasing shore birds near the surf. She will never catch them but thinks that she might. She keeps trying and I watch her instead of calling her back. I can't remember if she is supposed to be on a leash, but a leash seems ridiculous in a place like this.

I pull out the cooking gear and heat some water for tea. Where is the dog? I whistle and call, but no dog. The water begins to boil. While the tea steeps I look for my dog. Where the hell did that dog go? I don't see her on the beach so I walk to the dunes. On a high point I look across the grass covered dunes, calling. No dog. I begin to get mad, not furious but mad. I take a drink of tea and momentarily forget about the dog. I look across the beach again and feel irresponsible. With mug in hand I walk the beach, not in the direction I came from. I walk and call but there is no dog. She has never run off before. I turn around to look at the van. It is wide open and the dog is there. Where the hell was she? Was I just blind? She runs down the beach to greet me.

Since we are already out and about, I decide to continue on my walk. The van is wide open, but what is there to steal? The sleeping bag is filthy and the stove is hazardous. There is a little food but it is mostly uninteresting. I walk down the beach in the direction of a Louisiana heron stalking its prey. It is graceful, yet efficiently deadly. Small shore birds run in harmony with the tide, neutral and revealing. I feel naked next to the tide and it doesn't feel harmonious. I squat and stare at the heron.

The heron is hunting until Maggie notices it and chases it away from me. Why did she have to do that? I say nothing, rocking in my squatted position. I feel as though I am naked in a strange land. I stand and begin to walk, running at times, stopping at a look that seems to say, "Hello, I know you well." But I cannot recall. I search for a past but find nothing. There it is again, that look, that "hello old friend." I start to move further down the beach away from my van, away from known history and into uncertainty. Then there is that look again.

"Are you trying to avoid me?" She calls out.

I stop and turn, looking directly at the question. Is she trying to capture me? I stare, blankly, and squat. I turn away, further down the beach, and see the heron stalking food. I cannot seem to talk, turning to glance blankly at the question. The question moves closer. I feel on the verge of discovering the secret of life, the reality beyond the image. This image is beautiful but it is disrupting my discovery. She is coming closer, smiling in a cautious, concerned manner. The discovery is fading. Why can that heron catch food and I miss my great discovery? Why is that heron so god damn content to eat the same thing day after day?

"Are you all right, John? Sometimes you make me a little nervous. I was looking for you the last couple of days, but you disappeared without saying goodbye. I thought maybe you had left the beach. I thought maybe you became sick of Texas and drove back north to the snow."

"Hi, I missed you." What the hell just came out of my mouth? Is someone else talking for me?

"Really? You have a funny way of showing it when you greet people. A basic 'hello' would suffice. I was beginning to think I had intruded on some great discovery." She says directly and honestly.

"You had, but it was allusive anyway. I would have missed it whether you were here or not. You are really beautiful."

"First you don't say anything and then you tell me that I am missed and I am beautiful. You are quite strange. Strange, but honest and kind." She pauses. "So what was this great discovery?"

"If I could tell you, I would have missed it," I say.

"I thought you did miss it."

"I did, but I still can't intellectualize it. I am still at a loss for words." I look back down the beach, but the heron is gone. I look at Cathy. A smile overcomes me. Am I losing my mind?

"So where have you been lately?" she asks.

"On the state beach. I've been living on the state beach, looking for work in the area. I had a job for a couple of hours."

"A couple of hours?"

"Yep, I couldn't take it so I quit. But I think I have found another one, only I don't know when it will start." I am excited to be able to make this statement.

We start walking to my van, slowly. We talk faster than we walk. She doesn't have many stories besides a list of birds she has seen. I tell her that she reminds me of the Sandhill cranes. What bird would I be? I suggest a beat up gull looking for garbage on the pier. We laugh. She seems terribly interested in my job search. I tell her all about it, how perverse the one job seemed. We talk about the old man on the phone, how I formed an image of him that is still in my mind. I draw it in the sand, but having no artistic talent, the image looks like a bunch of pointlessly curved lines. She says it is a wonderful abstract piece that allows the viewer to form his own image. I have given something to the world. Without talking, we stomp on it at the same time, smiling.

(iv)

"You left your van open?"

"Oh, yep. Well, there is nothing worth stealing anyway."

"Hey, tonight is supposed to be a meteor shower and I was planning on staying up to watch it in my sleeping bag on the beach. I've been afraid to do it alone, but I think I could manage to do it with you." She reconsiders and adds, "You probably are attached to your bed in there." She looks at me and waits for a reply.

"Here comes the piano man. Are you ready?" I say.

"I was talking about the meteor shower. Are you interested or are you going to ignore me? If you are going to ignore me I will walk back to my camp. You don't have to sleep outside if you don't want to, but don't ignore me."

"I was listening to you; I just have a slow reaction time. Sure, that sounds fun. I can make some coffee for us. Got the wood already for... Hey, what's up?"

The large maroon station wagon pulls to a stop and the piano man gets out. He is actually parking his rig this time. He walks to the back window and pulls out a five gallon bucket, placing it on the ground in front of us. Turning, he walks to the passenger door and opens it for his little dog. I don't know what kind it is but it is hairy. Maggie, growling underneath the van, doesn't like it. No one has said a word. Al breaks the silence, now sitting on his bucket.

"Damn dogs. Can't trust them. They want you to think—oh, I'm just getting this stick and then they dig a 14 foot hole around you. Is that what you're going to do?" He looks at his dog.

"And what brings you to this beach?" Cathy smiles as she asks the question. It is an appropriate question for introductions, not unreasonable in the least.

"You had to ask. Didn't you? I've lived a really lonely, horrible life filled with crises. I didn't think it could get too weird for me, but this beach: oh, hell. What difference does it make why I'm here. I could ask the same of you but I don't really give a damn."

I laugh. He is tight-jawed with anger. He sighs. Suddenly, he is smiling and laughing, and we all smile, somewhat nervously.

"Playing the piano, I can give something beautiful without ever showing my dark side. And a great jazz drummer, nothing like him." He closes his eyes and begins to sway, lost in memory and imagination. I don't want to say anything. I want him to enjoy it as long as he possibly can. He does for around ten minutes, then he opens his eyes, smiles and laughs.

"Why don't you play something for us?"

"Play? How the hell..."

"Just like you were doing a minute ago. Go to that place and play the piano for us. Maybe we will be able to hear it. I would like something that I can dance to. Is that possible? A slow dance."

He closes his eyes and sits upright on the bucket. He is tall and rigid with bone-defined head like a stop sign on a rusting metal pole. He glances around the camp with crazed black eyes and seems to approve. Cathy stands, takes my hand, and leads me to some open sand. The pianist begins to play, gloved hands pounding the air, fingers extended. He sways on his bucket to an internal rhythm, smiling. She leads me across the sand, slowly but firmly. I was right, she is both graceful and romantic. I stumble but try to follow, trying to concentrate on her rhythm. She tells me to relax. I watch him and feel her movements; they actually seem to have the same rhythm. She leads and I try to follow, concentrating but relaxing. Am I hopeless? She encourages me. He plays.

A retired couple belonging to one of the RVs is walking the beach, looking for shells, exercising. She points to her husband in a matching red jogging suit and tells him to look at our beach compound. An old thin man pounding the air and swaying on a bucket. Two young lovers dancing in the sand. They stop and stare, smiling in a perplexed manner. The dogs are asleep and don't notice the onlookers. I do and suddenly I feel self-conscious. I stumble and Cathy looks into my eyes. I try to protest but she kisses me softly. She turns me so that my back is to the retired couple, and with her smile, I forget about our audience. I am dancing with her. He is playing the piano. I don't know how long we continue like this. I do know that I am exhausted when we stop. I am happy, relaxed, and exhausted.

Al stands, picks up his bucket, and puts it in his station wagon. His dog wakes up and jumps into the passenger seat as he opens the door. He pulls his gloves tight. Why does he always wear those gray gloves? He gets into his maroon station wagon with fake wood paneling, starts the big American engine, and slowly drives down the beach. No one says a word. There is not one goodbye or acknowledgment of what has just transpired.

I whistle to Maggie and the three of us walk down the beach, quietly. The van is left untouched. Nothing is put away; nothing is hidden. We just walk and pick up beach deposits. I stop to watch some crabs running in the sand. They leave small prints, the tide then washing the prints away, and I wonder if I have left any prints in the sand. I hope I leave no prints in life. All I want when I die is a blank beach or a windswept plain, no one crying. I don't want that responsibility, rather a smile and continuance of the day—at least that, but nothing more.

"You know we don't own perspective either."

"What?" I have been looking at crabs and bothered by imprints.

"You said that we only own perspective. You said that there is nothing else in life for us to claim. I don't think we can claim perspective either. That is borrowed just like our ideas and memories. We don't own anything. There is no true we because it has changed before we can grasp what we are."

I smile and go back to the crabs. Damn those imprints.

## VII

(i)

I light a fire with trash and driftwood, which can make beautiful light. At times I can see the lights shoot out of the fire into emptiness. I hope the emitted light will travel forever into the apparent vastness that is night, but it eventually dies and is forgotten. I am probably forgotten that easily, forgotten and replaced. I look at Cathy and wonder if we will forget one another since I'm certain that we will replace one another. Coyotes call from behind the van, some place in the dunes. Their call seems so finite and comforting.

"Have you met the people in that purple school bus?" she asks.

"I had dinner with them the other night. What did you think of them?"

"I thought they were really nice. I like how they live, the simplicity and independence."

"They are still as tied to the dollar as we are."

"But they can make their own schedule. When they work they create something that others will enjoy. At least I will enjoy what they make. I bought a necklace from them, the one I'm wearing now."

"Oh, I didn't notice it. You had on a jacket all day," I say.

"It's a nice necklace. You can see it tomorrow. What will you do for work? You will probably plant Florida palm trees on a Texas golf course. Does that really benefit the world?"

"I don't know. Does everything have to be beautiful and happy? Sometimes we are just consumers, making huge negative impacts on the rest of the planet," I say.

"I know. I'm not criticizing you. I spend a lot of time studying things that most people don't care about."

"That's because most people typically want palm trees where they don't belong. It doesn't mean that what you do lacks meaning." I say.

"Sometimes I just want to do more. I want to make huge discoveries that benefit people. Or save some endangered wildlife. Instead, I simply work in a lab doing ordinary things."

"What you do doesn't sound ordinary. Maybe it does to you, but that's because you are in academia. It doesn't sound ordinary to me. Planting palm trees where they don't belong sounds ordinary."

"Do you ever dream of doing more?" she asks.

"I do more than have dreams; I go into elaborate fantasies about adventure and spiritual breakthroughs in some exotic landscape. I guess I get bored with the present landscape so I invent one that sounds more appealing."

"What kind of landscape is that?" she asks.

"It is hundreds of landscapes. They are all different. But I'm not a child anymore. I'm trying to grow up in this landscape. Should I make some coffee?"

The dog is in the van, asleep. She wakes when I prime the stove, and it makes me think I am affecting her nerves. By the time I boil water, she has forgotten about the stove and has fallen asleep again, so I don't feel too bad. I don't think I would want to sleep as much as a dog.

We sit by the fire and slowly drink coffee. Cathy looks into the sky in time for a meteorite, though the peak show should be in a couple of hours. After coffee we will let the fire die and move out of its light. After coffee we will substitute the comfort of fire with the comfort of streaks of light amid stars. Without much of a moon, the sky is cold and open for viewing. For now, though, we sit by the fire, silently drinking coffee out of a shared mug.

I like that she doesn't always feel the need to talk. I like how she sits or walks with me; it seems honest and sincere. To watch the sky with her when the fire has died, we get into sleeping bags on the sand. I thought that the sand would be soft but it actually feels hard like uneven concrete. She has put a pad under her sleeping bag because she knows what it is like to sleep on sand. The sleeping bag is slowly getting warm and I hate the thought of leaving it, but I get up anyway, digging through my van for a sleeping pad. She simply smiles, knowing what I am thinking without having said a word. Does she do that often? I have grown accustomed to my van's bed. I have grown soft and I hope that my pad will make for a softer sleep, a sleep 30 feet away from my van's soft bed. What kind of adventurer am I, a little child adventurer? This is better, smoother, softer. She watches the sky for hours, silently. I watch the sky for maybe half an hour, falling asleep on my back and snoring into the silence, into the apparent vastness.

(ii)

I wake up before dawn and unfortunately have to get out of my sleeping bag to piss. It is cool and humid; there is a slight breeze. The tide is up and somewhat ominous. I walk barefoot to its edge and let the waves run across my feet, toes sinking in the hard sand. I am holding up my pants in an attempt to keep them dry, but a larger wave negates that attempt. The waves are larger today, more brown and turbulent. Sometimes the gulf is so calm here that I forget I am looking across salt water. Today I am reminded that the horizon doesn't end in land and a large body of salt water exists before me. I can't actually see it through the dark, but I know it's there. Today I feel small and insignificant. Hell, it isn't even dawn yet. I know I am small and insignificant and it feels like a relief. I would hate to be essential. The pressure and responsibility associated with that would be overbearing.

The edge of the horizon hints of the sun's arrival. Water crashes over my feet. I can taste the salty mist and it makes me thirsty, so I walk back to the van to get some water. The van door is open and a water bottle rests on the floor. As I fumble for the bottle in the dark, the dog shakes her collar—now two are awake. She jumps out of the van as I drink cold water. Like a spoiled American, I wish it were orange juice. People in much of the world have shortened life spans due to poor drinking water. I have excellent water and all I can think about is orange juice. I am a spoiled brat. And unlike most Americans, I know I am. The fact that Americans are spoiled brats is a secret held by the rest of the world. When I traveled abroad, I was told about the secret and now I believe it to be true. I pet my dog's head while she licks my feet, but she is still hard to see.

I whisper to her and, amazingly, she comes with me. We will get away from Cathy until the sun is out. We will let her sleep on the soft sand that feels like concrete. Since the pants are already wet, I make no attempt to roll them up before we walk. The dog runs on the hard sand, but stays out of the water. I walk a straight line, sometimes wet and sometimes dry. The water is cold and it makes my feet feel clean, and this cleanliness makes me think today is a good day for a shower. It is hard to be clean on this beach, usually feeling a constant film over my body, which was hard to get accustomed to at first. Now it is just the normal feeling.

There is no one else awake. It is quiet except for the surf, the breeze, and a few birds. Well, it isn't quiet at all, but there are no humans stirring. Maggie hasn't found a stick yet and I am spared our usual routine. It is good because I don't feel like being in a routine at the moment. I feel like doing something new. I am walking, which is nothing new, but somehow it feels new, new and fresh and different. My pants are becoming weighted. Without a belt, I would be wearing my pants around my feet. This is new. I usually take great pains to stay dry, but this morning is different. This morning my pants are weighted while I continue my straight line for almost an hour, turn around, and retrace my vanished footprints. I am sometimes in the tide and sometimes out of the tide, but, somehow, the dog remains dry.

(iii)

"Where have you two been?" She is out of her sleeping bag and dressed for freezing weather. It is definitely not freezing here. Were it freezing, I wouldn't be walking in the gulf. She has been fumbling with my stove in hopes of making coffee.

"We've just been wandering," I say.

"Aren't you freezing?" She has noticed my wet pants and bare feet.

"Nope. You must be though."

"I was trying to figure out your stove. There aren't many parts so I thought it would be easy to start. I've watched you do it but I can't get it to light. Mostly I've just made a mess with fuel and threatened to burn myself in the process."

"I know. I did the same thing until I got the hang of it. I still sometimes fumble with it."

"I was about to walk to my car and get my own stove. It is easy and simple, a very practical piece of camping gear. I'm not sure what your stove is. It sure isn't easy, making its practicality questionable."

"Well, you're welcome to get your own stove or to continue fumbling with mine. I agree that coffee would be nice."

I sit on the doorway of the van with my legs crossed, watching a lone sailboat on the horizon. From my van, that sailboat appears to have discovered the essence of existence. It seems to have found ultimate peace of mind. There will never be any more questions except for that constant one, but with that constant question, the lone boat knows it will never get an absolute answer so it has quit asking. The question is always experienced, no longer intellectualized. It is no longer a part of, it is. I don't seem to be, but it is. From the sailboat, maybe I have a similar appearance. I doubt it, unless the boat is in a storm. At that moment, maybe a skinny guy with legs crossed on a beach would appear to have discovered the essence of existence, but I doubt it. I think the sailboat would be too damn busy surviving the storm to care and that is a good place to be. Appearances are vague in such a situation, much like predawn shades. Now that the sun is bright and the morning calm, I seem trapped by appearance.

"Can I have some help here?"

"Oh, sure. With what?"

"This stove... for coffee... Didn't you say that you'd like some?"

I get up like I'm coming to attention, abruptly. I pour fuel over the stove, prime it, and once hot, light the burner. It takes me a minute, but I remember spending an hour trying to light the thing the first day I had it. I make sure to tell her that. I make sure to tell her that I almost burned myself many times while trying to light my stove. She tells me the stove is possessed, and I agree, adding that I am possessed as well. She tells me that I am meant for such a stove. We drink coffee from my only mug and it makes me wish I had a second one because I don't like sharing morning coffee. I want to linger, stooped, over my cup. I want to be selfish in the morning, but we share, politely.

"I was thinking about going to the local college library today. Would you be interested in doing that?" she asks.

"Sure, I guess. What are you looking for?"

"Nothing in particular. I wanted to spend the day reading something new. I'm sure we could do that there. If we get tired of that, maybe we could go downtown. I haven't been downtown yet. Have you?"

"Nope. I actually haven't thought about going downtown. I get a little freaked out in the traffic. Even going to the grocery store is enough of a city event for me."

"I'll drive. You don't have to worry about a thing." she says.

"Sounds good. Sure. I want to take a shower first."

"We could go by the YMCA on the way over there."

"Hell. We've got free showers here." I protest.

"They don't have hot water."

"That's OK. We can warm up in the car and the library."

"You can have a free cold shower today. I'll go to the Y tomorrow for a hot shower."

I don't want to say I'm simply too tight on money to buy a hot shower, but I think it is obvious. We drink coffee, shifting our weight from one leg to another while we drink. When the mug is finished, she leaves walking and returns driving. She puts her sleeping gear into her car while I get fresh clothes for the trip. What to do with the dog? No question, really, the dog comes. I put a blanket on the back seat and a bowl for water on the floorboard, and the dog seems happy enough with the arrangement.

(iv)

The shower situation at the National Seashore is quite nice but cold. I bring my pack into the shower house and carefully place my belongings on a bench. The water is very cold so I have to be efficient. I take off my clothes and walk across a concrete floor to a shower head. There are many shower heads in the open room. I put my shampoo and bar of soap on the ground. I look around; I am alone. The strategy: get completely wet, get out of the water to soap up and shampoo, and then have one good rinse. I hit the water button and a hard stream of frigid water shocks my system, every part of my body contracting and retreating into the only source of warmth, my body core. I can't breathe at first but I keep trying with short erratic attempts. Wet, wet, quickly get wet. I dance in place, first under the stream of water and then out of water's reach. I get the soap and I lather in rapid time. Shampoo. I dump a glob in my hand, still dancing, and start to work it into my long greasy hair. Work, work, faster, done. Now for the rinse. Damn that rinse cycle. Why can't I just simply towel off and put on an inordinate amount of clothing? I hit the water. It isn't as bad this time. Hell, it's not all that cold. I stand in the water until all soap is gone from my body and then I stand in the stream of water longer just to prove to myself that free showers are worth it in the winter. Who needs hot water? I walk away triumphant, but can't seem to manage shaving. By the time I get to her car I am shivering, but the sun is out. Thank god for the sun. I give thanks to the sun though I know it doesn't give a damn about me.

"You're shivering."

"I'm clean."

She turns on the heat for the drive off the island and into the city. I didn't want to ask but I thank her several times after she does it. I point all the vents toward me, selfishly. The dog begins to pant in the back seat but I don't turn off the heat, instead directing it toward me. There is a radio in the car. Of course there is a radio in the car; it is a fairly new car. I hate the music she listens to, but she has heat so I don't say anything. I sit, warming, listening to happy music and wanting angry music. What do I have to be angry about? Nothing. But I like the angst. I like to play the angst loud while driving an incredibly slow vehicle down the highway. I doesn't make sense, but that is what I like to do. Actually, it is past tense since I destroyed my stereo for a tape. Hell, that tape was a Grateful Dead tape. There was no angst in that tape. I have several tapes of Grateful Dead shows in my van. I guess that I like the Grateful Dead and a bunch of angry metal and punk bands. It isn't consistent but neither are my moods.

(v)

"What are we doing here? Are you getting something?" I ask.

"We are going to get some lunch for today. I thought we could have a picnic on the college lawn. What would you like to have for lunch? My treat."

Well, hell. I didn't expect to be treated to a trip and a lunch. Do I have to go inside that store? I don't want to tell her that my thoughts might be broadcast over the speakers. I don't tell her that this could be an embarrassment for both of us. She already thinks I am strange, does she need to know that I am sometimes on the verge of losing touch with reality? What the hell is reality anyway? Can we ever fully grasp reality? Aren't we incredibly limited by our ability to perceive? Do I have to go inside? I take a deep breath as she pulls into a parking spot. Reality is ever changing. Nothing is permanent. I've got to give it a second chance. Hell, I've got to eat.

"I'll just stay in the car with the dog." I say.

"Are you sure? I don't know what you want. Come in with me. Please. The dog will be fine. I have lowered the windows. You can get some more coffee to warm up."

It is settled. I have no choice. Things change. We get out of the car and close the doors. We are walking on pavement; she is talking but I am not listening. I'm thinking about my last experience here. Even if I do have thoughts, why should I be embarrassed by them? The last time I was here, my thoughts were simply honest. That fat lady was truly fat. And those people in there with shopping glaze over their eyes, they needed a reality check.

I walk into the store with wide eyes and cautious ears. We walk the aisles for at least half an hour. She has never been into a grocery store with me. It takes me hours to shop. I look at all the different colors and packaging. I pick random things up to see where they are made. I walk down one aisle at a time, forget something, and start the whole aisle shopping again. She asks me if I am on hallucinogens, but I tell her that this is my normal operating mode. When she smiles, she seems like a nervous academic to me.

"She is nervous because she is with you. You would make any sane person nervous."

I can't believe I am hearing Ben in the canned food aisle. What the hell does he know about canned food? He's too refined to eat out of cans. He only likes fresh produce, organic grains, and expensive meats. I turn around to confront him, staring sharply. He is gone but I wait for him. He doesn't come. The coward.

"What is it, John?" a familiar voice emerges beside me.

I turn back to her and look at her suspiciously.

"What is it, John?" Cathy repeats.

"Do I make you nervous? Do I make people nervous?" I ask.

"At times you make me nervous, not for my safety but for your well-being. What are we doing in this aisle, John? Did you want anything from here?"

"No. I was just checking. Maybe I would have, but I don't think so now. I'm sorry I make you nervous."

"It's OK. We have some fruit, hummus, nice bread, and chips. I'm ready to leave the store unless you can think of anything else we need."

"Let's go. We should have left this place long ago. Why did you put up with my rambling for so long?" I look puzzled as I speak.

"Did I have a choice?"

"You always have a choice."

She pays for my lunch. I offer to use the food stamps, but she smiles and shakes her head. I should save my food stamps for things like oatmeal, beans, and pasta dishes. I should save my food stamps for an occasional fish dinner, even if the fish is from a can. She doesn't need my food stamps now because this is her treat to me for being nice, for being a friend on the beach. She pays for the food. God, this is a feast for one meal. I carry the bags out of the store, squinting once we walk outside in the bright sun. She talks about her childhood, cooking with her mother. Sometimes their cooking would be Texan; at other times, their cooking would be foreign. When we return to the car, Maggie is so happy to see us that she jumps back and forth between the front and back seats.

Cathy drives me around town. I don't pay attention to directions; I am simply looking at all the stimuli. There is too much stimulus. Thousands of cars (on endless pavement bordered by dull architecture) race in ordered panic. Billboards, advertising America's material superiority, clutter the freeway and obstruct trees. The places blend together, the streets become homogenous. I lose track of location and don't care if I ever return. Mostly, I'm glad that I'm not driving.

(vi)

The college is a small but nice campus. The library is easily found and we spend the day reading. I look at some articles from various magazines, reading an article and putting down the magazine, picking up another one. It is somewhat browsing and somewhat selective reading. It may appear to be random, but it is quite patterned and orderly. I sink into comfortable chairs, providing a false sense of privacy. This routine lasts for hours. From what I can tell, Cathy is having a similar library experience.

We eat a late lunch on the grass, looking across the lawn, past the street, to the gulf beyond. We are eating and talking about what we have read. We talk more than we eat so lunch lasts over an hour. We are drinking sodas from a machine and eating our food from the grocery store. It is the best meal I have eaten in weeks, better than the fast food burger and fries, much better than the fish and vegetables. We talk and she laughs while I smile. We eat slowly, savoring each bite. I don't want the meal to end, but eventually I become full and no longer want the lunch to continue.

The dog is with us, begging. She leaves us to explore some bushes. I call her back when she ventures too far away. She returns with a ball in her mouth that she must have found it in the bushes. It acts like a pacifier, tempering her begging. When we begin to linger over uneaten food, Maggie drops the ball in my lap, nodding her head and barking softly. I walk away from our picnic and throw the ball. Now we play as if we have always owned the ball. We play as if we have mastered the routine. Cathy takes over when I get tired. The dog is running. Her tongue begins to droop out of her mouth, covered with grass and dirt. The ball becomes slimy, coated with a dirty white film. I can tell she is tiring about the same time I am getting tired of touching the ball. I tell her to 'take a break' and she collapses, smiling and panting. I let her cool off and then put her in the car. I know she will now sleep the late afternoon and early evening. The dog will be content in the car for a few more hours.

There are movies at this library, movies and small TVs with headphones. I have discovered them and I want to watch a movie. Cathy agrees. We walk through a large selection of movies, not your modern, main stream movie selection. This makes us excited and complicates our selection process. We pick up countless movies and consider them in depth. We have forever to make a decision, but finally we pick up _Paris, Texas_. Our choice is made; we will watch a movie about our state. We sit, huddled together, watching the small screen, wearing head phones. And it doesn't seem so small. For a couple of hours the TV seems enormous and the sound digital.

(vii)

When it is over we walk the dog. The sun will set soon.

"Maybe we should return to the beach, Travis."

"Travis?"

"Yes, you remind me of Travis. You both have a distant look in your eyes. Sometimes you are unapproachable like Travis. I could see you wandering across the desert alone, looking for a small town in Texas."

## VIII

(i)

As I drive down the beach, I have a Black Sabbath song in my head. I don't know all the lyrics so I keep repeating the parts that I know. One repeat, two repeats, and eventually it becomes innumerable. It continues while I stop at the bathhouse to shave my face. It continues while I drive toward my future place of employment. It continues while I park the van and walk to the door. It stops once I walk into the shop to look for Jason. Cindy is there, so is one customer, but otherwise it is empty, like my head.

"Hey, Cindy. Is Jason here?"

"Good morning, John. Let me call him."

After about ten minutes, Jason comes storming into the hardware store. He looks about, sees me, and walks over as if he holds a message for a general. I have a flash of some Civil War photos I have seen.

"Hey. John, right? They're not here yet. Tell you what. You keep showing up in the mornings, and when you see a semi load of palm trees, you can start working."

"Do you think it will be soon?"

"Soon. Yes, any day. Soon. I gotta run." And he storms off like he entered. I feel like a private, waiting impatiently, uninformed.

As I walk out of the store and into the paved yard, I run into Mark. He is working but not working, at least not at this moment. He is already dirty, his cast covered in grease so I know he has been working this morning. He sees me and walks over, smiling. He has this way of invading your personal space when he talks. He is predictable, standing too close to me. He is still a couple of feet away, but it seems too close. Maybe it is his eyes. Those blue eyes are piercing.

"You starting today?"

"Not yet. I'm supposed to keep showing up until the palm trees get here. Then I will start. And you? What are you up to?"

"Just coming inside to get some coffee. Our coffee maker in the back there—that's where I work—our coffee maker died so I have to come up here for coffee." He works in the mechanic's shop fixing old trucks and welding equipment. It is a dirty dark place covered with tool chests and parts and welding equipment. You can't walk into that place and leave grease free.

"I could use some more of that myself. Maybe I will make some on the beach."

"Jason said you are going to start working." Mark, looking in my eyes, nods his head approvingly.

"Yep. Soon I hope."

"I put in a good word for you. I'll tell you something. You better be a damn good worker since I put my word on you. You fuck up and I'll kick your ass. I'll do it real bad. I ain't fucking around with you. You understand?"

"Sure. I understand. You don't have to worry. I can work. I'm dependable."

He smiles and pats me on the shoulder. He is shaking his head up and down, crooked teeth showing. Usually his smile comforts me but this time it makes me nervous.

"Just keep showing up on time each morning. You'll be working soon. Speaking of which, I should get moving."

"See you later, Mark. Hey, thanks for putting in a good word for me. I won't let you down."

He smiles and shakes his head, then turns and leaves. His movements seem so deliberate and I feel like leaving, like returning to a Black Sabbath song, but the song doesn't return. It is times like this that I want a stereo. I want to escape for a moment, to forget about Mark and promised palm trees. I climb in my van and am immediately greeted by a dog, kissing me. This is better than a stereo. I sit in the driver's seat, hunched over the large steering wheel, while Maggie sits in the passenger seat, looking at me. I sit with my nervousness in that position for almost half an hour. I am sitting, hunched, and the dog is staring. Eventually, I start the engine and drive away. Eventually all the nervousness is gone and I am simply driving with the dog. Though the road is straight and doesn't require much attention, I feel attentive. I have the time to notice little details in the landscape: the curve of a dune, the shades of grass, the flight of a sparrow. I have the time because I am driving below the speed limit.

(ii)

I drive to the National Seashore, first stopping to watch the cranes. Maggie and I stand beside the van, watching. I remember the piano man, playing on his bucket while I tried to dance to a rhythm that he and Cathy seemed to share. They were graceful and romantic. I didn't share the rhythm so I tried to pretend, and I was awkward.

There are hundreds of cranes, maybe thousands. I close my eyes and listen to them. For a moment I am one of them. I am their call, seductive and complete. I want to migrate with the seasons. I want to have what they have. I open my eyes and immediately wonder if Maggie could chase one down, grabbing it by the neck. I remember sometimes wounding a duck while hunting. The duck would flail in the water until the dog retrieved it. The dog would return the terrified duck to me and I would kill it by wringing its neck. A few times the body flew off, leaving the head in my hand, and it made me laugh. I imagine a crane's body flying off with the head remaining in my hand. It makes me feel incomplete, a little less than civilized. But the human condition is inherently incomplete. Our history is largely defined by savagery. Maybe what I am feeling is the true state of being human, complete in all its complexities and contradictions.

(iii)

I leave the birds and drive to the bathhouse. I need to use a toilet and not a chem toilet. While I sit in a stall, someone walks into the bathhouse and pauses. He sighs and seems to loiter. When I open the stall I am startled by Al, the piano man. He looks at me intently and doesn't seem to be using the bathhouse at all. He seems to be waiting for me to leave the stall.

"What are you doing, Al?"

"I don't know. I've been haunted by nightmares. I just saw your van and I knew you would be here."

"So you came into the bathhouse to see me? You're not using the toilet?"

"Something is beautiful in dedicated evil. You know what I mean?" He smiles with a tight jaw.

"This has to do with your dreams?" I ask.

"Recurring."

"I don't think I want to know about them. Actually, I think I should leave." I look to the door and make a motion to leave.

"Did you have fun at the college library?" He says, stopping me.

"How did you know we went there?"

"Oh, I don't know. You are pretty transparent." He nods his head, the smile disappearing from his face.

"I'll see you later, man. Maybe those dreams will stop."

"Maybe or maybe not. Tonight will tell." He says seriously.

I walk past him, leaving the bathhouse and quickly walking to my van. I drive the beach until I find Cathy's camp and I park. She is in a lawn chair, reading. She stands to greet me. The dog is out and running for the surf, but I am standing with a blank look on my face.

"What's up, John? I guess the palm trees didn't arrive today."

"Hello, and no they didn't. How are you?" I ask.

"Fine. Just reading the paper. I went into town today to shower at the Y and picked up a paper on the way home. I just called the beach my home. I kind of like that. Home."

"I had a strange encounter a few minutes ago. Did you tell the piano man that we went to the college library yesterday?"

"No. Why?"

"He was waiting outside my toilet stall in the bathhouse. He asked me if I had a good time at the college library."

"Did I tell him? No, I don't remember ever mentioning that to him." She looks concerned.

"Have you seen him lately?"

"No. Just with you. Oh, this really creeps me out. I don't like that at all." She changes abruptly, asking, "Will you stay here tonight?"

"I would like to." I pause for a moment and then ask, "We didn't see him there did we?"

"No. I don't remember seeing him there. I would immediately recognize his car."

(iv)

We think about the past night. Did we see him in the grocery store? After the movie we walked the dog, not going anyplace else but the grocery store. We stopped there for the second time that day, another trip to buy food. She was missing fried chicken from a restaurant in Austin. Fried Chicken? I hadn't eaten fried chicken in years, probably not since New Orleans. Had it been that long? She bought fried chicken and coleslaw from the grocery store deli. Since I stayed inside the car while she shopped for dinner, the second stop at the grocery store only took five minutes. It was my second treat from her that day. We drove back to the beach, hungry from the smell of food. She wanted to wait to eat until we got to the beach. I agreed that the beach would be a perfect setting for fried chicken and coleslaw. She also bought some beer, a Texas beer. The dog whined in the back seat. I told her to stop but she couldn't help herself. That is how good the chicken smelled. I was beginning to lose my patience with her, but fortunately we arrived at the beach first. When we got to my van, I immediately let her out of the car and gave her a bowl of dog food. She looked at me and walked back to the car. I got back inside the car and shut the door. To hell with your begging, I thought. I ignored her and concentrated on a cold beer and greasy fried chicken. We ate quickly this time, talking with food in our mouths. Sometimes we would stop eating to take a drink of beer. The beer tasted good, better than the fried chicken. The chicken wasn't as good as the place in Austin.

That was it. That was the night. When we finished eating all the fried chicken, we slowly drank the rest of the beer. We drank beer and talked for an hour. What did we talk about? We talked mostly about concepts, very little about personal history. I asked her about her family but she gave me short, incomplete answers. She didn't ask me much about my past so I didn't ask any more about hers. She said that this moment is the only thing that matters. History will reveal itself in how we deal with this moment. She believes that people can change, so why not give people the freedom to change in this moment? I liked her ideas last night and I still do today. Maybe I like her ideas because I have had similar ones, therefore simply reinforcing my own ego. I don't know that I always practice my ideas and I wonder if I'll be around her long enough to see if she practices hers.

(v)

"So that's it? We don't know how the piano guy followed our lives. What do we do now?" she asks.

"I don't know. Hell, he's probably just a harmless freak." I'm trying to be positive. I think of the hours he spends in his camper watching daytime soaps. He has a generator and an antenna that enable him to watch his little black and white TV. "Maybe he got bored with soaps and decided to follow us. Maybe we are better than the daytime soaps. I mean, what is happening between us? I sure the hell don't know. I think about you when I'm away, when I'm at the state beach."

"I don't know what's up with us. That's not the point right now. The point right now is that the piano guy is a freak and he makes me nervous. Us? We are just beach friends. Maybe we are more than that, but in a few weeks we will resume our separate lives again. The us is only momentary. I'm afraid the piano man could be permanent."

"What do you mean, permanent?" I ask.

"I mean that guy could decide to practice some dedicated evil on us. He probably doesn't have long to live. Maybe he wants to get one good act on us before he dies. What does he have to lose? Prison might be a nice place for him at this point."

"I think you are going overboard." I say.

"Do you? Is that the last thing you will say before you die?" She is beginning to raise her voice.

"Hell, I don't know. We've got the dog to warn us. We can camp together tonight. This is his night to see if the dream returns. We'll stay together tonight. It'll be OK." I try to reassure her.

"I want to buy some shells for your shotgun. Let's go to the store and buy some shells. If he comes around tonight, I can blow his head off." She obviously isn't feeling reassured.

I have pictures of a crane's head in my hands, bloody. I can see the decapitated body on the beach. I can see Al's skinny body in the sand, motionless. I can't believe this is happening. I suggest that we confront him, talk to him about our concerns. This is probably a simple misunderstanding. She says that he will tell us whatever we want to hear. She says we can never trust what he has to say. She says that we know nothing about his past.

"Past? Hell, I thought that the past doesn't matter. People change and we have to embrace who they are in the moment. Remember what you said last night?"

"Well, sometimes I am full of shit. I can make life as abstract as I want, but this isn't a book. I'm scared and I want to do something rational about it. I want to protect myself with whatever means I have at my disposal. Now, we have your gun and I want shells for it." She is talking loudly.

"Are you going to shoot me when I go out at night to take a piss?"

"No."

"Do you even know how to shoot a gun?" I ask.

"Yes, I grew up hunting birds with my father. I am probably a better, safer shot than you are. Are you going with me or am I leaving this beach alone?" she demands.

"Leaving and going where?" I ask.

"Home."

"You just called this beach home."

"Would you shut up and get some shells for that gun?" She states in a softer voice.

So much for concepts. We get in my van and drive the beach. I wave as I pass the piano man's compound. He waves back and tilts his head. Funny. Is my imagination crippling my ability to act compassionately? Is compassion only a concept. I drive and she stares out of the window. We are silent. Some cranes fly over the van, necks extended.

(vi)

We drive to a store that has everything, clothing to auto, prescriptions to ammo. This is America. Here we have everything that you could possibly want, especially if you only want it for a few months. Here we don't sell merchandise to be passed down to your children. Here we believe in temporary satisfaction. The good thing about ammo, temporary satisfaction is all anyone wants. I am sure that a childhood Christian version of heaven is somewhat like this store: every desire is met and any breakables are immediately replaced from an endless stock supply.

I walk to the sporting good section, but stop along the way to chat with Bernie.

"Hey... brother... what... are... you... doing... here... so... late? I... didn't... know... you... shopped... at... these... sorts... of... places."

"I don't often but sometimes. You have to if you're American. Don't you?"

"What... are... you... here... for?"

"Shotgun shells. She's going to kill somebody," I say.

Cathy has already gone to the sporting good section. She is on her way back when Bernie finishes his last sentence to me.

"I... thought... maybe... you're... like... me."

He opens his trench coat that has numerous pockets filled with expensive merchandise. He quickly closes it again and fastens a few buttons.

"You ever get caught?"

"No... dude... They're... scared... to... talk... to... me... I... think... they... just... want... me... to... leave."

"What the hell you gonna do with all that shit?"

"I... got... it... figured... Go... to... the... competition... store... say... I... lost.... the... receipt... and... want... cash... back... You... can't... tell... nobody."

"Dove shot or duck shot? Which do you think would be more effective?" Cathy asks.

"It would be close range so I'd pick the cheaper one." I think in economic terms.

"I think I'll go with duck shot because it's bigger. I want the maximum effect if I'm going to use it. I want to be serious about this, not simply buy what's on sale. This is our lives we are talking about. I can hear it now. They would still be alive if they hadn't been such bargain shoppers." She walks off with an air of determination.

"You... ain't... shittin'... me... are... you... I... didn't... see... you... here... and... you... didn't... see... me."

"Sounds good, Bernie. See you sometime on the beach."

Cathy has paid for the duck shot by the time I am to the register. I am about to leave when I remember that I am out of Copenhagen, so I stop to buy a can. Once outside the florescent lights, we walk quickly to the van, passing new cars with nice paint jobs. I stop at the van, looking around at the indistinguishable cars in the parking lot, and feel fortunate to have an old rusting van to call home. I want nothing to do with modernity and its lack of character. I open the door, climb in, and once hunched over the steering wheel, I slowly open the can. The smell is overwhelming. I inhale deeply and smile.

"I can't believe you put that shit in your mouth. It smells like crystallized horse piss." she says.

"Really?"

"I once had horses and I know the smell. That shit is disgusting."

"Well you don't have to chew it." I put in a chew and swallow.

I can't really believe what is happening. I have actually bought a box of shells to kill Al if he comes by the van tonight. I have another image of a crane's head in my hand, decapitated body on the sand. Al would be much bloodier than a crane. I can see his long, emaciated body on the sand. I have never seen a picture of a man's head after a gun shot. I don't think I want to see it, and I can't imagine it even though I watched plenty of TV as a kid. The snuff is relaxing. I feel extremely relaxed, as if we were driving back to the beach to eat fried chicken and drink Texas beer.

(vii)

"We can't start to fight at a time like this. I don't think it would be healthy."

"I agree. Who am I to tell you not to chew that stuff?"

"Are you planning to load the gun?"

"Certainly. It isn't any use if it isn't loaded. I might not have time to grab it, load it, and fire. I want to grab it and fire if I need to."

"Sure. That sounds reasonable. But I think we should have the safety on in case Maggie knocks it over. It doesn't take long to release the safety if you know what you are doing, and you say that you do. Maggie would give us plenty of warning."

"That sounds reasonable."

"Where will we put it?" I ask.

"Next to the bed, away from the sliding door."

"OK... so you are sleeping with me in the van tonight?"

"Definitely. You don't mind, do you?" she asks.

"No... I don't think I'll mind. I hope I don't mind. I feel like I'm dreaming about starring in a B movie. I'm a B movie actor impersonator... I hope I don't mind."

## IX

(i)

I am awake at dawn. I have a little battery-powered alarm clock. It is black with a digital screen and it keeps me from showing up late to the future job site. I open the sliding door, letting the dog out into the cool breeze. I am consumed by sleep and surf, sitting at the edge of the van for several minutes in an attempt to become more coherent. The dog has disappeared into the dunes. I hope she isn't chasing a lone coyote. At least I won't have to walk her this morning. Beginning to think about the dog? I must be more awake. I stagger around the van to the edge of the dunes and take a piss in the soft sand.

Cathy moans and rolls over, spreading across the bed now that I am gone. She still has some time to sleep before I have to leave. The gun rests, unused, in a corner next to the bed. It is becoming light enough outside to see images. I dig through my cooking gear, finding the stove and coffee. Starting my stove in the morning requires more concentration than I want to give. I want to simply push a button and have coffee within ten minutes. Better yet, I want to be waited on by a beautiful woman. I look at the lump of covers in the bed. There is a beautiful woman there but she isn't waiting on me; I am waiting on her. Life is better in fantasy.

Once the coffee is made, I begin to worry about the dog since I've heard a few coyotes. I walk to the dunes with coffee in hand, the mug feeling comforting. The routines of my life seem to define my existence. I call, whistle, and call again. Nothing. I can't see clearly in any direction. Life still exists in shadows and I begin to worry. Calling, whistling, calling. A light comes from inside the van. Cathy is awake and dressing. She wears more clothes than I do because she is a Texan. I am a deserter of Texas who has returned to make his riches. I will rape and pillage and run away with pockets full. I will make my conservative family proud.

I am worried about my dog.

I walk along the edge of the dunes, calling and hoping to see a shadowy figure moving through the sand and grass. I see? No. Cathy walks over and gives me a hug. She takes my mug and slowly drinks. It is strong and hot; I didn't let all the grounds settle before pouring it into my mug, simply being too impatient this morning. Sometimes my teeth feel gritty after I take a large drink. It tastes good, though.

"There she is. She's coming this way."

Cathy points but I don't see Maggie until she is very close. She comes back with her tongue hanging, panting. She is wagging her tail; she is triumphant. I feel like a slacker. Making coffee was a major event in my morning. My dog has already hunted, chased, and run for miles. We walk back to the van and sit at its edge. The dog crawls underneath my feet and lies in the cool sand, and I decide to put on some shoes.

"I should go soon."

"You can take my car if you'd like. I'm not going to leave the beach today." She says sleepily.

"You want the dog for protection?" I ask.

"That would be nice. I'll take good care of her while you're working. Do you think you will start today?"

"Probably not, but I better show up in case." I pause, then ask, "You gonna take your usual walk on the beach?"

"I doubt it." she says.

"You'll have the dog. It should be fine if you stay in the area of beach where people are camped." I am trying to sound encouraging.

"That's true."

She gives me keys and kisses me goodbye. A goodbye kiss? What is happening here? As soon as I shut the door to her car, Maggie jumps on it, nosing the window. I roll down the window and tell her to stay. It doesn't work. I get back out of the car and find some climbing webbing in one of the van's closets. I have to dig through gear because the webbing is hidden, protected from uses such as a dog rope. I tie one end around her collar and give the other to Cathy. Instant leash and rope and I am finally a responsible pet owner. I have imprisoned my pet. I hate myself for my new accomplishment. As I drive away, Maggie barks and Cathy waves. For a moment, adult life seems like what I envisioned it to be as a child in Ft. Worth suburbs. The thought makes me feel nauseous.

(ii)

As I drive down the beach at 10 mph, I search for a rock station. I am tired of her music, but my searching doesn't produce anything satisfactory. I turn off the radio. Silence. Her car is so quiet in comparison to mine. The air cooled engine on my van is loud, but it is even louder on this beach because the muffler has started to rust apart. I have holes, enlarging, in the muffler. At first I made patches out of aluminum pop cans, tied to the muffler with metal wire. The result was a musical instrument. My van sounded like a kazoo as I shifted gears and slowly accelerated to cruising speeds. But the holes became larger and now my van no longer sounds instrumental. Now it simply sounds old and annoying. Cathy's car is quiet and I relax into the silence.

I drive by work but there is neither semi nor palm tree so I keep driving. I drive to a convenience store and buy more coffee. It is cheap, only 50 cents. I walk out of the store and then return. One newspaper, too. Another 50 cents. I leave the store for a final time. There is really nothing left to do but return to the beach. Maybe I can take a long walk with the girl and dog, and without the gun.

(iii)

Last night was a bit surreal. I remember us loading the gun and holding it. We both practiced drawing it. I imagined a duck as I pointed it at a gull. One shot and the duck fell to the ground. I'm not certain, but I think Cathy imagined the piano man. I wonder if she imagined a dead, bloody piano man. I hope not. We placed the gun in the corner, safety on. It stayed there all night and was still there when I left this morning.

Last night, we took off our jackets but left on some of our clothes. We crawled into sleeping bags, close but separate. The bed is not very large and there was no room for the dog with two people in the bed. Maggie cried from the floor but she eventually gave up crying and lay in the floor between the bed and the front seats. We talked about nothing in particular, chatting to lighten the moment. She told me funny stories about people I will never know. I talked about hitchhiking, something she will never do. We kissed, first cautiously and intermittently. Then she kissed me passionately, long and intense. I was getting excited and I didn't want it to stop. I had forgotten about the gun in the corner and a figure on the beach. She hadn't. She stopped and turned around. She asked me to hold her as she cried. We spooned, her crying and me feeling excited. Slowly the excitement waned, and it was just two people holding one another. We fell asleep that way.

(iv)

I am to the National Seashore by the time I finish thinking about the previous night. I leave the pavement and enter the sand. Miles of sand are before me. A person could drive all day on this beach and never see any development. I haven't driven very far, but it would be possible with a four wheel drive truck or jeep. It would probably be a good idea to have chains, too. That would be seclusion in Texas. A big truck, some chains, and Texas beer: that would be ideal. It's not going to happen in this car. I drive past Al's compound, thinking about stopping, but I don't see him outside. I look again, but his car is gone. I wonder where he went and then I imagine him with Cathy. I drive faster, passing the purple school bus. I am getting closer. I don't see his station wagon but I do see my van. I see my van near a tent. I see a woman by the surf with a black dog. They are playing stick. The image looks like post card material. Who needs a truck with chains?

## X

(i)

Although I have only been gone for an hour, I feel as though I am coming home after a long day of work, the kind of day with two hours of overtime. I walk to the surf, running at times until I am tackled by my dog. I stumble to the ground. She is wet and has a large stick in her mouth. She hits me with the stick when she turns to greet Cathy. Standing, pants wet, I talk to Cathy about fears concerning Al. Cathy still wants a loaded gun at night. The day? She doesn't feel as worried during the sunlight. She feels she can see things coming in the sun. It's as if dedicated evil is self-conscious during the daytime. There will be time in the sun to find the gun and make a clear statement. The dog will give ample warning. The dog is the great siren warning against dedicated evil. The gun is the great protector. Is there any such thing as dedicated evil? She doesn't feel the need to respond to such a question.

We walk the beach for over an hour. We are ambling like a heron. We are not moving like crabs. Our minds seem to be moving like crabs, but not our legs. The dog explores with her nose, occasionally chasing a bird. Cathy holds my hand. It feels comforting for both of us. I am a bit apprehensive about the loaded shotgun in the van, but I seem to be committed to this woman who I barely know. I do not feel longevity here, but I do feel a sense of temporary responsibility. I cannot simply leave at this point, nor do I want to. I feel excited when I see her, more so when I touch her. She will be gone soon, but I am drawn to her for the moment. It is a tremendous freedom, a passing which is unconditionally complete.

We walk back to the van quietly, slowly. We stop and I open the sliding door. She kisses me gently, longingly. She starts on the mouth but then moves to my nose, my cheeks, my neck, my mouth again. She unbuttons my jacket, one button at a time. There is no hurry in her movements. We have an entire day to undress. The breeze is cold on my back when she takes off my jacket. She has not stopped kissing me. They are not desperate, wet kisses; they are patient and confident. We awkwardly step into the van. I pull the door shut with one arm. I caress her neck and hair with the other hand. I pull her sweater over her head and drop it on the floor. She unbuttons my shirt, kissing me, and then unbuttons my pants. It is winter so there are lots of clothes to remove. She moves her hand from my chest, down my belly, into my pants. I pull off my pants but stumble, losing my balance. She laughs, dropping her pants to the floor. I am on the floor, having lost my balance. I am an opportunist, removing my shoes first and then hers.

I run my hands up the outside of her legs, past her lungs and to her breast. I am certain hers are the most beautiful breasts in the world. I caress them with my fingers and then with my tongue. She leads me into the bed and directs me to lie down. With covers pulled over her back, she sits on top of me. I am hard. She feels herself and then directs me inside. Her movements seem premeditated, deep and grinding. I hold her by the waist as she grinds with a masterful smile. This continues, her body undulating, her head rotating. I move in rhythm, deep inside her wet cathedral. She pulls my hands to her breast and moves closer, her long hair enclosing my face. Her motions are more deliberate and acute, her head rotating and hair caressing my face. This is a prayer I can believe in. This is salvation. I see the white of her eyes as she moans. Her nails cut into my chest. She begins to collapse so I lay her down. She is on her stomach, tired, but I am behind her, entering her again. Her tight bottom cushions my thrusts. I begin gently but thrust with increased intensity as the tension mounts. She moves her butt in slight irregularities, each one more exciting than the previous. She asks how I like it but I am unable to respond. I am building, building, climaxing into her warm, wet comfort. I am collapsing on her back. My hands move across her sides until they rest in her hair. I kiss her hair, her neck, her back. We fall asleep, holding one another beneath the sleeping bags. We are warm together; it seems so cold outside.

She doesn't want to leave the warmth of the bed, the warmth of our naked bodies beneath a thick layer of sleeping bags. The bags are open but they are separate so I take the time to zip them together. She crawls inside the newly made cavern and pulls me in. She begins to kiss me again but this time she seems more desperate. Her kisses are hard and wet, but her hand moves below in fluid repetition. Her intentions are not hidden and I am infatuated with her honesty. She makes slight suggestions with her body. I explore her suggestions with my mouth and hands. She rolls me on my back and moves on top. I take a deep breath as I move, fully, deep within her. She rocks her hips slowly to an internal rhythm. It seems deep and natural and eternal. Sometimes she seems desperate and heated, but she will suddenly slow and grind deeply, purposefully. We continue like this, alternations of desperate passion and slow grind. I am certain that it will last forever but it builds between us. I grasp her tight buttocks in an attempt to hold on forever. She is bent over me, closer and seemingly possessed. She has her hands around my neck, pulling my hair. She is tightening. I am grasping. It is becoming hard to breath but I want her to suffocate me, kill me so that the rest of life will not be a disappointment. I grab her waist and tighten as hard as I can. We are killing each other, tension building to an intolerable level. This is either death or salvation, both. We relax for a moment and then tighten, relaxing again in collapsed agony. We hug, holding one another in celebration of orgasm. Our breathing is short and desperate. I never want to think of life without this woman.

(ii)

It is amazing what sex will do for the paranoid. The gun begins to hold less of our attention. We take long walks down deserted sections of beach, completely forgetting about the piano man and his possible serial dedication. We live in my van for the next three days, spending a large amount of time in sleeping bags. The sleeping bags get torn apart and I put them back together. She always likes to start on top. We can finish in any position possible, but first she must be on top. I am convinced she is a backcountry goddess. I take a picture of her. I lose many things but I promise myself to never lose this photo.

I continue to wake before dawn each morning, making coffee in the shadows. She wakes each morning, dresses and sits at the edge of the van with me, drinking my gritty coffee. She never complains. She simply sips and gives me a hug, all in silence. Each morning I take her car to work and find that the semi has not arrived. I buy more coffee and a local paper, returning to an oatmeal breakfast. Sometimes we drive her car into town to buy some food or take a hot shower at the Y. I am convinced that life is pleasant with a hot shower. Life with a cold shower is simply endurance and life is no longer about endurance.

## XI

(i)

It is 7:45 and there are no trees at the shop. Thank god because all I want to do is to spend the day naked. It is a cool, overcast day with occasional drizzle. Nudity will require a sleeping bag and a warm body. She didn't wake this morning before I left so maybe she is still covered, sleeping. I imagine sliding into the sleeping bags and holding her, letting her wake slowly. I buy a coffee from the convenience store, but this time I don't buy a newspaper. We haven't read yesterday's paper yet. I drive, sipping the hot coffee. I am certain that work will eventually come, but now the need doesn't seem as pressing as it once did. Nothing has changed in my financial outlook; it is simply a change of circumstance.

"You're getting soft. What you need is to make some money. Work, work, work is what makes us a whole person, a contributor to society. You are a damn leech. And I wouldn't trust her. She has a life, but she is keeping you from having your own. Stop in that shop and show your face. Be responsible for once." Ben is riding with me. I seem to have given him a ride from the convenience store. Is he going to the beach dressed in that suit?

(ii)

I pull into the shop and shut the door on Ben. I walk inside alone, standing to greet my new employer. I sure the hell hope he doesn't need me. Yes, I'm looking for Jason. Oh, you say he asked if I had stopped by. I wonder why. You don't know. Cindy gets on the phone and within a minute she has produced the boss. He is at his usual running speed. He is a torpedo and I am afraid he is going to sink me. I will surely drown in the cool drizzle on a golf course. He needs me. Damn it. The trees are not here because they were delivered to the site. It's a good thing I stopped in today. Am I ready to work? Sure, I can work right now.

I am led by Jason to the secretary. She is a large woman in a t-shirt and jeans with permed red hair. This is not a natural red, more orange, and it matches her long nails. She wears too much makeup like a good Texas eighth-grader should; I mean the stuff is plastered on her face for an oil painting that is bound to last a century. Maybe this is cheap oil paint, however, and will crack tomorrow morning, but I'm not going to find out. I am going to do my paperwork and leave.

I have paper work to fill out before I can work. Do I have my ID? Yes, I can fill out your paper work. I start to write but the pen doesn't work. Is this a sign? Maybe it's just a bad pen. I shouldn't overreact. I fill out the forms, consecrating my employment. The hell with you, Ben. I am no longer that leech you spoke of. I am official, and with it, I am miserable. Work is not as exciting as I had imagined it to be. What am I talking about? I haven't actually started anything yet. I walk into the yard and look for the torpedo. He is at a boom truck, talking to another guy.

Shane is in his mid-20's, but he already has gnarled hands with enlarged knuckles. He is 5'8" and doesn't have an ounce of fat on him. It is raining so he is covered in a dirty jacket. He has old leather boots that seem to have been forgotten about. They are tanned with cracks, the soles worn past the point of adequate traction. He doesn't smile; he seems to have forgotten how. We greet with a hand shake and head nod. He looks at me, first my face and then eventually my shoes. My face looks too soft for this type of work. And it smiles too readily. My shoes, however, are worn from hiking, not from laboring. It doesn't really matter, they are equally worn. My hands are strong but they don't have the character that his do. God, I could write a story about his hands. The gnarled hands (only twenty something years old) plant Texas, rebuild yesterday's America, fight Yankees, engulf a beer can, and awkwardly pursue Southern college girls on spring break.

The boss storms off after giving Shane the responsibility of planting all the trees. He stops, turns, and storms back. I will be paid every two weeks. There is no overtime, so when I reach 80 hours, it is time to stop working until the next pay period starts. Do I understand? Yes, I have dealt with bosses like you before. Shane looks at me. He seems disgusted to have to work with such a baby face. Where is the hardened laborer? And a hippy? He thinks about it and decides that maybe I will have some good smokes. Maybe I will be acceptable. Maybe I will get him stoned with some killer bud. I must be a stoner. I live in an old VW van on the beach. Life will surely be mellow with me.

We climb into the boom truck. It is a climb meant for young legs and is finished on a spring seat with holes at the butt cheeks. The seat is filled with leather gloves, junk food wrappers, and a large jug of ice water. The front windshield is cracked and the passenger door window no longer rolls down. The floor board is covered with mud. We accelerate through the gears at a patient pace, eventually reaching a cruising speed of 55 mph. The engine is loud and has an occasional knock when pushed. Cars pass and stare. This is just like an old VW bus. I immediately feel at home though Shane refuses to talk to me. I ask a couple of questions but they are obviously unwanted. The answers are curt. The stare is direct and meant to penetrate.

We pull onto the green expanse that is golf. This is Texas golf, coastal refuge for the wealthy. For some reason they envy Floridians and want Florida palm trees to line the fairways. We have hundreds of trees to plant on the green expanse, which is presently devoid of anything higher than a shrub. It looks fine to me, but it must appear naked to some. I try to imagine how much this club is spending on trees but I get lost in the numbers. I bring it up to Shane but he ignores me.

He is disgusted by me. My legs are crossed for god's sake. Am I a faggot?

The boom truck has a new black and yellow paint job (the bed and boom are black, the cab yellow) but it is a worn truck. It is like a made up old whore. She still works, and maybe better than most, but the years have not been kind. No paint can cover up history. He gets out of the truck and shows me how to use the chain. There are certain things for me to yell so that he can operate the winch without hurting me. Wrap the trees with the chain like this. OK? Call out and get the hell out of the way because these trees weigh over 80 pounds per square foot. These trees are 30 feet tall so imagine the weight. I could die if I don't pay attention. Do I understand? Sure, it seems simple enough. I wrap my first tree and get out of the way. I yell and the tree jerks off the ground, pulled slowly to the boom. It is balanced and dances about under the boom. He looks at me in disbelief. How can I be so damn happy about a worthless palm tree? The newness will wear off. Can he stand me until that time? We drive slowly, away from the clubhouse, to our first planting spot. Shane looks about as he turns off the engine.

"You smoke?" he asks.

"No," I say.

"You gotta be kiddin' me. You don't smoke nothin'?"

"Nope. Nothin'. Chew Copenhagen though."

"I mean ganja. You can't tell me that a hippie like you doesn't smoke."

"I'm telling you, I don't smoke. Makes me comatose."

"What kind of fuckin hippie are you?" he asks in disbelief.

"I'm one of those natural hippies. Look man, I don't care if you smoke. I just don't have any myself."

"You into anything?"

"I like beer. Use to drink whisky, but now just a beer here and there." I say.

"No real drugs?"

"Well, I dabbled in some psychedelics at one point in time, but nothing now."

"And you live in a van on the beach?" he asks.

"Me and the dog. Well, there's a girl in it right now, but I didn't come with her."

"What do you mean there's a girl in it now?" He turns and stares at me.

"I mean there's this chick that I met here and she's hanging out in my van right now. She gave me her car to drive to work."

"Dude. I don't know whether to believe you or not," he says, shaking his head.

He pulls out a joint and smokes it. He looks at me and shakes his head in disbelief. In between tokes, he asks me more questions. He is especially curious about Cathy. How does a guy in a van meet a girl on the beach, and before spring break? It is approaching bathing suit season and he will be ready with smoke and beers. But most of those chicks are rich college girls that want nothing to do with him. He likes watching, though. There's nothing wrong with looking. Is there? Fuck no. He's a man, isn't he? He can look on the beach and jack off to an image in his trailer. He can get fucked up in the bars and fight with those college pussies. One of those girls is going to know a real man when she sees him. One of those girls will go back to his trailer. They will be impressed by the pit bulls in his yard. They will long to kiss his hard body. They will be drunk and horny. In the morning, he will fix them a bloody marry while they lounge nude in his trailer. They will forget about the beach when they meet him. He takes a final toke and holds it, nodding his head when he finally exhales.

I begin to dig a large hole for the palm tree. It needs to be several feet deep and several feet in diameter. It is sand, so the digging is easy, and the pile of sand grows quickly. He shows me how to work a shovel in case I haven't figured it out yet. I am patient; I am temporary and he is permanent. The tree swings on its chain beneath the boom. He is stoned but he is angry. He attacks the sand with methodical violence. I just keep a rhythm going. I want to show him that I can work but I don't want to try to outperform him. He is clearly the boss and I am the new guy. I am a temporary vagabond from the beach. What do I know about hardship? I stop digging and look at the situation. It is a momentary break but it seems so revealing. Humanity is not so far removed from the rest of the animal kingdom. OK. We are fairly removed from the arthropods. But other mammals?

"I think I can honestly call you an ape. Yes, John the ape. You have regressed, John, truly regressed. See what happens when you drop out of college? An ape, John." Brian is beside the boom truck. I turn to look at him but he suddenly disappears behind the front of the truck. What does that rich little shit know about work? I want him to meet Shane in a bar. I want Shane to kick his ass. I can't seem to get angry enough to fight, but Shane. He's got the angst. He's got the fight in his heart. I return to digging.

I wish that I had a tail to hold on to things. A tail seems more versatile and attractive than a third hand. Oh well, too bad.

"You ever wanted a tail?" I ask.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" says Shane.

"A tail? You ever..."

"I just can't believe you're not a stoner. I'm stoned and I can't even follow your shit. Come on, we need to drop this tree in the hole."

He describes what he is going to do and what I am supposed to do. Do I understand? Sure, direct you to the hole and swing the tree's ball in the hole. Got it. A tail? He tells me not to get my tail stuck. The truck moves and the tree swings back and forth. I direct him until the ball is over the hole. I yell at him to drop it and the tree lowers, creaking. The ball is in the hole. I yell at him to stop. He gets out with a critical look on his face. Nothing to complain about. Perfect. We unlatch the chain and, grunting, stand the tree upright. I look down the fairway at three big guys planting shrubs. That looks easy. Shane tells me that those guys work for Jason. We got the shit job and we're the smallest dudes in the company. We gotta do hard labor and they just plant some shrubs. We fill in the hole with sand. The mound lowers as the hole is filled. We spread out the extra sand. As we drive past the three big dudes planting shrubs, they flip us off. I wave and Shane ignores them. We drive to another tree.

There is a disorganized pile of 50 palm trees near the club house. They once lived in Florida but now they are going to live in Texas. Shane tells me that he plants lots of palm trees. Many of them will die in the next decade, maybe sooner. The Texas coast sometimes freezes. Dead palm trees to be yanked out of their hole and replaced with fresh phloem. He has seen it before and will probably see it again. Will he actually be planting trees in the future? The pay sucks.

"I'm kinda stuck right now because my truck needs a new engine. I started to rebuild it but I ran out of money," he says.

"You done that before?" I ask.

"No. This is my first time, but it is gonna be a sweet truck when it's finished. It will kick ass, not like one of those old VWs. It will have power. And when others see how good my truck runs, they will want me to rebuild their engines too. That's what I'm gonna do someday." He is certain of future success.

"What? Fix your friends' engines?"

"Not just my friends. All kinds of folks, some that I won't know, but all kind of folks will want me to work on their engine when they see how mine runs."

"When do you think you'll be finished with your engine?" I ask.

"I'll have the money in a couple of weeks. It will only take me a week or so after that. I wish I had me a garage. Then it would go fast, with a garage. I have to work in the yard."

"I don't know anything about rebuilding an engine. Is it hard?" I ask.

"You damn right it's hard, but I got it figured out. Someday I'll take you for a spin in my truck and then you'll know what power is."

"Mark has that old car. That car has some real power. He races it up and down the beach."

"That guy is crazy. You better be careful with him. Nobody around here ever tries to fuck with him cause they might end up dead. He's that crazy. He said you are a friend of his from the beach." Shane says.

"Well, I know him from there. He does have a crazy look in his eyes. He can also be pretty nice though."

"I don't know nothin' about him being nice. I just keep to myself. Mark said you was his friend so the others won't fuck with you. Know what I mean?"

"Are the others afraid of him too?" I ask.

"Damn right they are. We seen him go crazy on somebody before. There ain't no stoppin' that guy. If he can't kick your ass with his fists, he's liable to get a gun. That's how crazy he is. I gotta gun in my trailer just in case."

"Just in case what?" I ask.

"Just in case. That's all." That's all he needs to say.

"I got one too." I admit.

We have hoisted another tree with the boom. The pile seems so large, but we have a golf course to fill. We drive the truck slowly down the ruff. There is no hurry. We don't want to track up the golf course so we drive a little faster than idle. The chain creaks and the tree rocks a bit. He watches the tree in his rear view mirror. These trees are expensive. We have to be careful with them or Jason will be furious. Jason can throw fits. We can't throw a fit without getting fired, but Jason can because he is the boss and he can act like a child.

"So how long have you been doing this?" I ask.

"Four years. Too long."

We drive past the three guys planting shrubs. They yell something, but I cannot hear what because the engine groans and the window is rolled up. Shane gives them a look that clearly indicates dislike. We drive, the tree slowly rocking. We stop, dig another hole and plant another tree. This is our routine. This is my new life. I get hot digging and cool riding in the truck. It is now February. Shane says that the weather will be more pleasant in a couple of weeks. I have a chew and enjoy the cool drizzle, happy for February.

## XII

(i)

It is early evening by the time I get back to the beach. Al, the piano man, is in a lawn chair near his camper. He stands to look at the car but I don't stop. I don't feel like talking to him right now. I am sore from working, a bit damp, and hungry. I had no lunch today because I didn't plan that far, remembering to show up dressed in work clothes but forgetting to actually have food. I didn't expect to work, expecting instead to always work tomorrow, the eternal tomorrow. Shane ate in the truck on a thirty minute break. I sat next to him, chewing Copenhagen. His lunch was a partially smashed peanut butter and jelly sandwich. It didn't look very appetizing even though I was hungry. If I'm going to work this hard, I better start eating food.

As I pull up to the van, the only thing I can think about is dinner. Cathy is sitting on the edge of van, feet kicking sand at me as I approach. Maggie jumps out and greets me like a typical dog. She could be in the mountains, the beach, or the suburbs. I don't think she would really know the difference. She drops a ball.

"Where did you find this, Maggie?"

"She found it on the beach today. It was in the tide and she bounded in after it."

I throw the ball for the dog and say hello to Cathy. Yes, it is true that I had to work today. It will be like this most of the time now. The dog returns, dropping the ball. I throw. Cathy continues to kick sand at me. She is wearing a green jacket, partially unzipped with a heavy blue cotton shirt beneath. Her running shoes can really kick up the sand. What did I do? I planted palm trees all day long, one after another. I imitate my day to her. She smiles and asks if that is all I will do. I think so. What did I do for lunch? I did nothing. Oh, wait, I chewed some tobacco and drank some cold water. Yes, I'm quite hungry. I ask her about her day.

"Well, to begin with, I thought you would be right back. I didn't know you would have my car for the entire day."

"I told you that I had to be ready to work at any time. You're the one who suggested I drive your car. I don't think you can throw that in my face."

"Well, what am I supposed to do while you have my car?"

"I won't take it again." I say.

"I tried to drive your van to buy some food but I couldn't get it to run. It kept stalling on me."

I failed to notice when I pulled up. The van is a few hundred feet from her tent. I look back and forth for a minute, silently. I start to laugh. Brian shows up.

"I told you not to trust this girl. She will blame you for following her suggestions." Brian says.

Cathy stops kicking sand. "I don't think it is funny."

"Why are you so pissed when you are the one who told me to take your car?" I ask.

"Well. I don't want you to take it again. I felt stuck here."

"Tell her it's her vacation. She needs to relax." Brian says.

"I won't take your car again. You should relax about it this time," I say.

She is pissed, staring at me, hating me. Why did she have sex with me? She thought I was strange and now she thinks I am an asshole. She stands, stares, and gets in her car. The seat is damp and sandy. She calls me a slob. The door slams and she drives the few hundred feet of beach to her tent. We are now separate. If Shane showed up he would call me a liar. There is no woman who would consider sleeping in that van with me, especially not a beautiful one like Cathy. Fuck it.

"I told you she couldn't be trusted." Brian has a smug look on his face. I hate when he is right.

(ii)

"Let her go. Let her go and be mad." I am talking to myself but that is nothing new. All I can think about is food. There is a pasta dinner, just add water and boil for seven minutes. That sounds easy. I pour the fuel over my stove and light it. Suddenly the inside of the van is a ball of flame. The dog runs from the van and I jump outside. The flames settle to the stove area, but there is a blue flame on the fuel canister. Shit. I grab the canister and run down the beach, blowing. Blow, blow, dammit, blow... out. I walk back to the van in time to light the stove. Flame is controlled and directed. I put on a pot of water to boil. I will eat soon.

The meal is uneventful. Now that I am done, I don't remember what it tasted like. I am still hungry so I eat a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I am challenging my dog in an eating contest. She finishes first but I am a close second. We both belch. The dog jumps on the bed and I stare at clouds in moonlight. Maybe tomorrow will be clear. The clouds are definitely breaking and the mist has stopped. But clear tomorrow? Some coyotes howl in the dunes. I know they will explore the beach later tonight but I want to see one now. Their call is like a friend's handshake. They will not try to kick my ass. They will only say hello and go about their business. They will not meddle with a lover. I wonder if they are hungry.

I wonder what Cathy is doing in the privacy of night so I walk down the beach to her camp. The van is now separate from her camp, and I think she likes it separate. Oh, I don't know. She didn't complain about the van for the past few days. I remember her being quite fond of it. I walk to her tent, well lit, and say hello. I am cautious but undaunted.

"What do you want?" she asks.

"I just wanted to see if you were still mad at me. I wanted to know what I did to piss you off so much."

"What you have done? You know, sometimes you scare me, not in the sense of danger. I believe you to be quite harmless. But you scare me in how distant and emotionally blank you can be. It is not that you aren't in touch with your emotions; it's that those emotions seem foreign to you. You are in a dream, some kind of delusion that buffers you from reality. It interfaces with reality enough that you can plant palm trees on a golf course, but what you perceive as real is not comprehensible to me. In a sense you are other. I don't think that other is always healthy, though. You don't know what is happening to you. I think I've made a mistake. I think maybe we are a mistake."

"A mistake? We've just met. You told me to borrow..." I am cut off.

"I know, I know, but you should have been considerate enough to think about me today. What was I to do? That van of yours is impossible to drive."

"I am talking to a tent. Would you mind coming outside to finish this conversation? I don't think I can take a rejection from a tent." She unzips the tent and comes outside. The night is calm, deadly calm, and the mosquitoes are out. I slap my head as she pokes her head out of the tent. I ask her to come all the way out. She does, standing barefoot in the sand.

"It sounds like you don't want to see me. Is that what I'm hearing?" I speak softly but directly.

"I just don't think we should spend all our time together. I don't think I should be living in your van while you drive my car. I think we should have a little more space than we are giving each other. Things just got crazy around here. I don't know. We clung to each other."

"I'll take my van tomorrow. I can stay on the state beach for a few days. It's close to work and all."

"Just leave. Don't put up with this bullshit. Be strong and walk off. Stay on that state beach." Brian is always opinionated. I say goodbye and walk down the beach alone. She starts to say something to me, but she stops herself. She stands, watching until I can no longer be seen.

## XIII

(i)

"Have you seen Shane this morning?" I ask one of the laborers on another crew.

"No, man. Go check in the back. He's probably home if you can get past the dogs."

"He lives back there?" I ask.

"In that trailer behind the mechanics shop." He points to the back of the complex and then turns his head away from me.

I walk past the plants and the lumber, past the mechanics shop and the vehicles. There is a high chain link fence outlining a yard of sorts. It is mostly dirt but there are some weeds amid the junk. As I approach the gate, a brown-and-white pit bull runs toward me. He is on a heavy chain, and when he reaches the end of that chain, he flips, landing on his back. He growls, barks once, and runs back to the house. Time to try again. Again, he fully sprints until the chain flips him. He growls, barks once, and runs back to the house for another try. I don't want to be standing here when that chain breaks. I decide to walk back to the boom truck and wait. Nothing is important enough to enter that yard.

I stand at the boom truck, drinking coffee from a paper cup. I got it at the office but I don't know if I will get it there again. The secretary didn't like sharing her coffee with a laborer, especially a new guy. She made certain to comment: "Who's gonna buy the coffee grounds for that cup of coffee?" I looked at her and walked out of the office. I stopped at the door, turned, and promised to bring her some change tomorrow. She said she didn't want my change. I thanked her for the cup and wished her a good day. She didn't respond, simply staring at the empty threshold once I left. Maybe tomorrow I will bring her a dime.

I am looking at the boom truck when Mark arrives. He is in a pacing mood, talking as he walks around the truck, sometimes reversing his direction. He points out all the flaws in the truck. He shows me a crack in the boom. It is beginning to identify itself beneath the fresh coat of paint. He warns me to stand clear when it is hoisting a tree. Be careful? Sure, I will try to be careful. He tells me the bosses don't give a damn about me, about any of us who make them money. I have to watch out for myself because no one else will. And he tells me one more thing before he leaves. He tells me that the owners don't have insurance on the truck. He tells me not to drive it because the boss will lie to the police and stick me with the ticket. It happened last summer. The owner still doesn't have insurance on the truck. Jason is walking to the truck.

"Time to get out of here. Where's Shane? You need to get going." he says.

"I don't know, probably at home."

"Well go get him." he demands.

"I'm not going near that pit bull on the chain. I'll wait here for him." As I say this, Shane walks out of the yard. He has a jug of water and a grocery bag filled with two sandwiches.

Jason yells, "You two need to get going. It's time to go. We've gotta get those trees in the ground."

"Relax. I'm coming." Shane isn't in a hurry.

We don't say hello. We simply get in the truck and drive. I have an image of his dog on the chain, flipping when he hit the chain's end. My dog is also tied up. This morning I drove to the state beach instead of making coffee, parking behind Mark's muscle car. The dog and I walked the beach, playing ball at dawn. I tried to tire her but she seemed to have plenty of energy when I left. I tied her to the bumper with some climbing webbing and put some water against a tire, hoping that it wouldn't be overturned. I left and she looked at me, crying, occasionally barking. I'm not sure this arrangement will work, hating myself for leaving her.

"You think I can bring my dog with us?" I ask.

"What?"

"Do you think my dog can come to work with me?" I repeat.

"Mine can't. Why in the hell should yours?"

We pull into a convenience store to buy gas. We have an account here so we don't have to worry about bringing money. Shane fills the tank while I wash the windshield. How's the oil? I check the oil, too. It seems fine. He tells me to get some lunch if I want to eat today. I have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, so I don't need food, but I do need some coffee. I buy coffee and a donut. I eat the donut before we leave, smelling gas as I bite into the hidden jelly.

The trees are still in a pile near the club house. There are dozens of trees stacked against one another on the ground. Some are parallel to the general stacking order but others are perpendicular, making the pile seem a bit unorganized. We back up to one of the trees at the edge of the pile. I wrap it and Shane raises it into the air, swinging. Mark's comment about the crack repeats in my mind, so I walk to the boom and look at the crack. Once I didn't even notice it, but now it seems huge. Has it grown? Surely it is growing. I give myself plenty of space as I walk around the truck. I climb into the cab and ask Shane if he knows about the crack. Shane doesn't care. It isn't his truck and maybe things would be better if the damn thing broke. He laughs to himself about a pile of trees not moving, not being distributed to their individual spots. He has images of Jason having a temper tantrum.

"Just stay out of the way of the tree. That way if the thing breaks, you won't get hurt. It's easy to get lazy back there. Hell, it's just another tree. But keep alert and nothing will happen to you. You gotta watch out for yourself cause the bosses won't help you if something goes wrong. You'll just be fucked." For a moment I think Shane actually cares for my well-being.

We drive down the edge of a fairway, looking for the next palm tree location. The sites are already marked for us and all we have to do is put the trees in the ground. I drink coffee as long as I can. When we stop to dig another hole, I place the coffee on the dash and put in a chew. We don't start quickly; we are in a morning warm-up. I savor our slow start because it won't last. Once we get in a rhythm, we will not stop except for lunch. Today, I have some food to eat, fuel, and the day will not seem as long with fuel. This is what I tell myself as I begin to dig. I like to watch the hole grow. I like to look at the pile of sand I am moving. It feels rewarding, an instant gratification. I spit in the hole when it is large enough. It is a spit of accomplishment.

The ride back to the pile seems like a little break in the day, a period to rest. I strained my back somewhat when we stood the tree upright. It is sore and feels uncomfortable when I slouch so I sit up straight and drink my coffee. I know my back will work itself into a normal comfort with digging loosening my muscles. Digging will give me enough money to leave this beach. Digging will be my escape. Another tree is hanging from the boom as we drive down the same fairway to a different spot. Shane smokes a joint while he drives, looking in the rear view mirror at the swinging tree. While he does this, I finish my coffee. The coffee tasted good when it was hot, but the last drink was a disappointment, being cold.

We stop and I begin digging a new hole. God, this seems like the last place we dug. I look around and feel certain that I am digging the same hole countless times. I feel imprisoned by my routine. I mention this to Shane and he tells me to shut up. He tells me to dig the hole and plant the tree. He tells me never to think too much about what I am doing because it will depress me. He asks me what I make and I tell him. I am shocked to find that he makes only 50 cents more per hour. How long has he been here? Four years and he only makes 50 cents more an hour? He has had only one raise in all that time? I ask him about the others. One guy is a supervisor and he makes more. The others work for a little more than minimum wage. The economy is depressed, so if anyone complains, they are easily replaced with someone eager to have employment. The old guys hate new guys because the new guy replaced a friend. I wonder if I replaced anyone. No, I'm just a seasonal guy until these trees are planted. That pile is all the trees? I am thinking about job security. I need enough trees to last a couple of months. Then I should have enough money to leave this beach. Shane says no, more shipments will come and we will have hundreds more to plant. He assures me I will have a job because no one else wants to do it.

(ii)

"I made good money out of high school. I was working the oil fields and pulling down lots of cash. I had a new truck and TV. I could party and watch football. I smoked good stuff then. Cocaine, too. I always had money to party. But then the oil market died and I died with it. Now I work for shit and can't seem to get out of here. What the hell did you use to do?" Shane seems almost chatty.

"Oh, I've wandered around doing all sorts of odd jobs. Last, I was a caretaker of a lodge in Wyoming. It was beautiful, man, lots of snow and no crowds." I can picture the windswept mountains and plains, all white from a fresh snowstorm.

"So why did you leave to come here?" he asks.

"I had a falling out with the owners. They stiffed me two months' pay and I still haven't seen it. I don't think I ever will."

"So you came down here?"

"Yep. I was looking for a public beach someplace warm. I picked this place because I am originally from Texas. When it warms up in Wyoming, I will return. I will return in the spring." I say.

I dig and my back feels better. I am moving it around, stretching it some while the sand is getting moved as well. Four years and only one little raise? I wonder why people put up with it. Is work that hard to find here? I dig and don't ask any more questions. He was getting tired of answering my questions. It seems to make him feel depressed, but maybe he is just stoned.

"You are going to get trapped here too. John, you don't have any real skills. What happens if that van of yours breaks down? Then what will you do?" Ben is looking at my hole. He is talking to me but Shane doesn't seem to notice him.

"I won't get trapped here." I mumble to Ben.

Shane stops digging. "That's what I said four years ago. It happens, man. Any little thing can happen and leave you begging to keep this job."

"He's right, John. He knows what he's talking about. He's got that truck he can't afford to get running. You might be the same." Ben's voice sounds authoritative.

"It won't be that way. If I have to, I'll hitchhike north. I've done it plenty of times before. I'll leave that van if it doesn't run." I'm talking to both of them but Shane doesn't seem to notice Ben.

Shane quits digging and drops his shovel. "Good enough." He returns to the cab and backs up the truck. I stand out of the way but direct him so we plant another palm tree and leave.

The day continues, the same scenario repeated countless times.

(iii)

At the end of the day we enter pavement again, Shane driving.

"So, Mark tells me there's no insurance on this thing. Is that true?" I ask.

"Yep. They've been saying it will be insured any month. They are full of shit because they've been saying the same thing for years now. Don't believe a word the owners say."

"Why do you still drive it?" I ask.

"I need a job, man. I'm not like you. I don't want to live in my van on the beach. There's no chick in my van." Shane seems inconvenienced.

"None in mine, either. She got pissed last night and I didn't see her this morning before I left... Mark told me Jason tried to stick a ticket for no insurance on some other guy. Is that true?"

"Sure did. Told the police that the truck was supposed to stay at the shop. Said that worker used it without his permission. That guy had to quit and leave town. He was a drifter like you. He just left town when he got his final paycheck. That ticket was several hundred dollars."

"Doesn't that make you nervous?" I ask.

"Sure does. But we are safe on the island. Off the island we would be in trouble. That's where the last ticket came from. We left the island to do a job. As long as we stay on the island we should be fine. The cops don't care here."

We pull into the shop and park the truck in the back. I say goodbye and Shane just gives a grunt. I punch the time clock and then walk away, each step a cleansing. I walk down the road leading to the state beach with nothing on my mind. I am simply walking.

(iv)

"You are a drifter and you get shit jobs. When are you going to become responsible and find a good, honest job? You should have stayed in college. You dropped out of college and you dropped out of society too." Ben is with me, walking to the beach. I continue to walk, ignoring him as best I can. He can seem so honest, though. Am I simply kidding myself? I feel confused.

The dog is asleep under the van. I wake her and she licks me with an enthusiasm that suggests she has had a stressful day. I ask her if she was lonely, but it is a ridiculous question. I untie her and we go for a walk, walking for half an hour, and then we return to the van. There is a ball in the van so we play with that. Her water is unturned and I assume the tire must have protected it. At least she had water for the day. What else happened during the day? Anything? If she could talk, she would tell me that Bernie had visited the van today. He drove up in his old van, the engine dying when he took his foot off the accelerator.

In the passenger seat was that friend of his. I can't remember the guy's name but I remember his story. He draws unemployment and periodically lives on the beach. Sometimes he is home with his wife but she kicks him out of the house when he gets too drunk. He is clean cut, unlike Bernie, but he can drink beer like Bernie. They get drunk together and talk about life. When I first met him, he was with Bernie. He was fishing in the surf and talking about women. He sleeps in a tent when his wife kicks him out of the house. He told me he gets laid in that tent, more so than at home. There was a young heroin junky that sometimes lived on the beach last summer. She would do cartwheels naked when the weather was warm. You should have seen her body. Last summer she would stay in his tent when he was on the beach. He would give her money for heroin and she would have sex with him. Sometimes she would hang around for days. He bragged about the sex, saying that she was a goddess in bed. The mere thought of her made him horny. When she would disappear, he would return home to his wife. It was always a disappointment to return home, but a hot shower felt good. So did a soft bed.

If Maggie could talk she would tell me that Bernie got out of his van with his friend. They tried to talk nicely to her. Bernie talks so slowly that he sounds impaired even when he is sober. Maybe she didn't trust his voice. But his friend is a smooth talker, a real salesman. I wouldn't believe anything that either one of them said. I guess Maggie didn't, either. They act friendly to me but I think they are opportunists, trying to rob me. They saw me walk away to work early in the morning. They didn't know the dog would protect my van. They tried to talk nicely to her; they even tried to bribe her with a piece of bread. She ate it but resumed her growl. What did they think they could steal? Food stamps? There is the gun, now unloaded and buried beneath the seat. Did they know I have a gun? They eventually left my van and drove into town to buy some beer and baloney. When they returned, they offered a slice of baloney to the dog. She ate it and resumed her growl, this time emerging from underneath the van. Her teeth are very white and seem large against the black fur coat. They left, convincing themselves that it wasn't worth the effort. I don't think they knew about my gun. If they did, they would have tried harder. Too bad she didn't bite one of them. I would hate them if Maggie could tell me what they had done today. I would buy her a hamburger if I only knew about her efforts.

(v)

Dinner, what am I going to do about dinner? I look at my food choices for the night: a rice dish, a can of beans, some peanut butter. I want none of it and decide to walk to the bathhouse instead of making dinner. I get some fresh clothes and the usual toiletries, stuffing it all into a day pack. I take off my boots and wool socks, placing my bare feet into tennis shoes. I am ready to walk. Mark is in his pop up camper. I can hear him talking to himself and it sounds like he is cooking. Maggie runs ahead of me, smelling beach deposits. She greets the oil driller's dog. Where is that guy? I walk past his old RV but see no signs of life. Hopefully he is with that young girl instead of being depressingly drunk. His face looks like that of a depressed drunk but his eyes and mouth get excited when that young girl is around. Farther down the beach I pass Bernie and his friend. They are sitting in lawn chairs near the tide. It is another lazy tide, harmless and calm. His friend is fishing but it doesn't look like he's caught anything yet. I'm sure he caught something sexual last summer, but the fishing this winter doesn't look as productive. They wave at me and smile. Maggie ignores them.

In the bathhouse I take off all my clothes. It is cold, especially the cement floor, but I am so tired I hardly notice it. I wet a washcloth with cold water and completely wipe myself with it. I do this several times until I have goose bumps. Next, I use soap, following the soap with a wet wash cloth again. Who knows if I remove all the soap? Does it really matter? I towel off with my old shirt and dress in fresh clothes. Before I leave, I take the time to shave my face with soap, cold water, and a dull razor. It is not a pleasant experience. The dog is on guard outside the bathhouse in sand.

(vi)

As I walk past Mark's camper, I hear my name called. The door opens and Mark emerges with a smile. He has a kitchen towel draped over his cast and a spatula in his other hand.

"What are you doing for dinner?" he asks.

"Some beans and rice, I think," I say.

"No, you're not. I'm about finished cooking. Come join me."

"Sure. You want me to bring anything?"

"Just yourself. I got everything else under control."

I throw the pack in my van and feed the dog. I leave the van door open for her to use the bed if she so desires. Mark's door is open. I have never been inside his camper and I am immediately envious of the space. He tells me he bought it last year for twelve hundred dollars. It looks like new. And in rain? He says it doesn't leak. He calls it the perfect home. The atmosphere is calming, spacious and filled with classical music and appetizing smells. There is a bottle of red wine on the table. He gives me a mug and tells me to help myself. Dinner is almost ready.

He is still wearing his work clothes but his face and hands look clean. He must have washed at work before returning to the beach. I am served a plate of stuffed grape leaves, wild rice, and steamed vegetables. He politely pours us both more wine and I am thankful. This certainly beats instant rice and beans from a can. We talk about life on the beach and work gossip, both eating slowly between periods of conversation. I don't think that Shane would believe this dinner. He would find it impossible to reconcile with Mark's image. I decide this meal will remain a secret.

We savor the rest of the wine after we finish eating, talking about women while we slowly drink. Presently, we are both involved with complicated women. Maybe we are the ones who are complicated. We smile and laugh. At least we now have hope. We are on this beach alone tonight, but we have hope for company tomorrow. Tomorrow holds so much promise. We vow to seek out that promise tomorrow, to make a concerted effort as we finish the wine. I'm not much of a wine drinker but it tastes good tonight. Maybe I should buy some after work tomorrow. I ask him how to make such a nice dinner. He says it is easy but that he cannot give me the recipe. It is a secret recipe from his sister, given to him when he got out of prison. She picked him up and took him to a bar. She gave him the recipe on a bar napkin and told him to keep it to himself. He has and he will. She committed suicide a year after she gave him that recipe. Someday it will die with him.

(vii)

I leave his camper and enter complete darkness. The moon is new; the Milky Way can be seen. I stumble down the beach, partly from wine and mostly from darkness. Where the hell is my van? There it is calling like a beer can during a football game. A beer would taste good now, but all I have is my van. I open the sliding door and sit on the edge of the floor. I wonder what is happening in Wyoming college basketball, only thinking about it when I have been drinking. I have some Copenhagen. Snuff never goes well with wine. Maybe that is why I haven't been a wine drinker thus far in life. I want a beer to go with snuff, a beer to go with a basketball game. I sit in my van, feet on the sand, and stare at the sky. This is reality, a small insignificant animal staring into the universe, pondering his meaning. I have no answers. I am no super hero. Could anyone be a salvation from the human condition? I don't think so. I am simply a neurotic mass of cells looking at itself, smart enough to ask why and dumb enough to think there is an answer. The dog goes to bed but I sit for countless minutes, filled with wonder and apprehension.

(viii)

The next day is a glimpse of endless routines. Manual labor is about endurance and patience. It is not about diversity. I enact the same routine with Shane that I did the day before. Sometimes our conversations are the same, sometimes different. It is the two of us with shovels, a boom truck with palm trees, sore muscles and spent gas. We don't laugh much together. I laugh sometimes but I think Shane has forgotten how to. We both have dogs and they are both tied to our houses, sleeping while we work. At lunch we eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and drink cold water out of a jug. Sometimes our lives seem so similar. I look at him and think that we have nothing in common. What am I thinking? We have everything in common.

As we drive back to the shop at the end of the day, we talk for the first time in an hour. Shane looks at me in disbelief. I haven't said anything but he has a look of disbelief when starts to talk to me. "What the hell are you going to do about that woman?"

"What are you talking about? What woman?" I am acting cool like an idiot.

"That woman that was staying in your van. Have there been others?"

"No. No others, but I haven't seen her in days. I've been on the state beach and she is on the National Seashore. She hasn't come by since I left."

"Why the hell haven't you gone to see her?"

Is Shane giving me relationship advice? I can't imagine taking relationship advice from a guy like Shane. He is smoking a cigarette while he drives. I think of a modern cowboy. Shane's not a cowboy. What the hell am I thinking about?

"I was thinking about seeing her tonight. I was thinking about getting some wine and dinner and going to say hello."

"I wouldn't think about it. I would definitely do it. If I had a woman like that, I would go see her. Is she pretty?"

"Yes, she is beautiful. What do you mean, if you had a girl like that? What kind of girl do you think she is?" I ask.

"She must be pretty cool to be camping out at this time of the year. Any girl willing to sleep in a van on the beach must be cool. You shouldn't mess around with a girl like that. What are you going to do, jack off on the state beach?"

## XIV

(i)

When I walk out of the grocery store I run into the piano man. His tall thin figure casts a long shadow against the wall. I look at his shadow and I have an image of Dracula. Is he that dark?

"Here comes the freak. I would be cautious when leaving this store. He wants Cathy." Brian is coming out of the grocery store. Why doesn't he have any groceries? He acts like we are best friends, but he's a friend that I have been trying to forget ever since I met him. Is that a friend? Does recurrence constitute friendship?

"What are you doing, Al?" I ask.

"Why I was going to ask you the same thing. I haven't seen you on the beach lately. Your girlfriend is still there, but no you. What is that about?"

"I have been working on the island and living on the state beach lately. I've got some shopping to do. Hell, the usual."

"It doesn't sound usual to me. You've got a job. That isn't usual. What are you doing?" Al seems pleasant enough at the moment to be sane.

"I am planting palm trees on the golf course."

"Well, that doesn't sound as fun as having sex on the beach. Why did you give that up?"

"I don't think that is any of your business. What do you know about my sex life?" I become defensive.

"I know that girl you were hanging out with has been lonely. We've talked about it. You should return to the beach. Tomorrow is a Sunday. Nobody works on a Sunday. Are you?"

"I'm headed back to the National Seashore tonight. Have you been harassing her since I've been gone?"

"So hostile. So protective. I never pictured you as the masculine type. This laboring work must have gone to your head. Are you going to kick my ass out of jealousy?" Al is smiling and looking at me from the corners of his eyes.

"Kick his ass right now. Don't wait. Don't take his wry comments. Kick his ass right now." Brian never fights but he constantly tries to instigate them.

"I should kick your ass but I am going to buy some wine and tortellini instead." I say.

"Oh, you have suddenly become cultured with your new tens of dollars made working some meaningless job. I'm sorry to disturb you." Al waves his hand as he talks.

"Kick his ass. Don't take his psychotic shit." Brian is encouraging me, begging me to break up the boredom.

"If you come by my camp at night, I might have to blow your head off." I say.

"And during the day? Are you so hostile during the day, too? I am having pictures of John Wayne. But you are a hippie. I can see it now, the John Wayne hippie. Six shooters." Al points his finger and pulls the trigger.

"Fuck off, Al." I walk past him and enter the white-washed colors of the grocery store. The light has a way of washing out all the colors, but my imagination tries desperately to restore them. I walk the aisles for thirty minutes to buy my tortellini and wine. Do I need parmesan cheese? I buy some generic cheese and some canned tomatoes. I walk to the produce aisle and buy an onion and some garlic. I walk front to the checkout.

"You can't buy the wine with the food stamps." The checkout woman says.

She looks at me with disgust. She is working hard and I am trying to buy some wine with food stamps. The hell with government subsidies. She vows to vote republican in the next election. I feel the need to explain myself but I stop. I want to say that I am trying to get laid. Would that explain it? It would at work. She takes my food stamps for the food items. She doubts my need, my necessities. I use my money to buy the wine. She takes my money in disgust, slapping the change in my hand. I leave the grocery store proud. I doubt she has ever left the comfort of her family. What does she know about need? What does she know about taking risks?

(ii)

As I drive over the bridge to the island, the sun is setting. God, it seems so promising. I have hope for the night. I think about sex, but I will settle for a nice evening with wine. I can cook for her, feed her wine and delicacies from my camping stove. We can have a romantic dinner around a drift wood fire, the flames making sparks of multiple colors. The flame will give me hope for the night, and hope for tomorrow, and keep me from becoming depressed. I drive until the pavement ends, and then I drive slower on the sand. It is getting dark so the campsites are hard to see. Where is she? I want to say hello but I cannot find her.

"You will never find her in the dark. You will have to drink the wine alone. She wouldn't want to drink with you, even if you found her. Of course you won't. It doesn't really matter because the whole thing is so hopeless." It is Brian talking. I wish it were Maggie in the passenger seat but it is Brian. Doesn't he have a home? I feel despondent.

Where the hell is her campsite? Her car and her tent? Did she leave? Did she escape from the eternal hopelessness that is this beach? Yesterday it seemed so promising and generous but now it seems hopeless. I drive and look. I am trying to see past my headlights but I find only darkness. The stars are out but I am not pondering my existence. I am pleading for a future, desperately. I drive and look. I must have passed her. Do I need to make laps on the beach? Do I need to blind each campsite with my headlights?

There are two people in my headlights. I stop for them as they walk across my path. They stop and turn, walking to my window. It is the hippies from the purple school bus. I roll down my window and pull to a stop.

"What are you two doing?" I ask.

"Just a walk in God's wonder. Isn't the night beautiful? How could you not believe in God with all these stars to keep us company?" They say. I now regret having asked the question.

I bend my neck out of the window and look at the stars. I don't negate the possibility of some activity in the universe, but a willful one? It doesn't make me believe in an anthropomorphic deity. It is just a bunch of space with untold wonders and beings. "Pretty cool, even to an atheist." I say.

"An atheist? How can you not believe in God in a moment like this?"

"I don't know. I don't know about a lot of things that occur to me. Why am I not in love?"

"If you accepted God into your life you would be in love forever. There would never be a question in your life." They seem so certain.

"Well, I wouldn't want that. I like all the questions. By the way, I have one for you. Is Cathy still around?"

"She is. She is up the beach a bit. We just saw her yesterday. That reminds me. I know what she likes if you want to buy something for her. We might be able to barter if you are short on money."

"I have nothing you would want. My prize possession is a backpacking stove. You wouldn't want it. No one likes it but me. I think we are meant for one another. You two have a good night. I'm going to find Cathy. That is if she still wants to talk to me."

I drive into the dark with new vigor. I zigzag, pointing the headlights toward the dunes when I think there is a camp. Sometimes I hit an RV, sometimes a camper. There is a fire in the distance. Could it be hers? I drive, veering to light the dunes. I don't see her car so I drive a little farther, continuously veering, continuously hoping. There it is! I drive directly to it, parking and stopping the engine. Maggie jumps out to greet an empty camp. I talk loudly but there is no response. Maybe that campfire. Maybe she has found some new friends on the beach and is happy with them. Will I wreck the moment? I suddenly feel nervous and self-conscious. I consider staying in the van but I walk the beach instead. I walk to the light, the only light on the beach. It is flat walking so it is easy, even in the dark, Maggie in front of me. She will do the greeting and I will do the following commentary. There is music coming from the fire, music and moments of silence. Maggie must be there by now, the music having stopped and voices emerging in the sand. I walk into the light surrounded by people holding instruments. I am greeted by a hug.

"Everyone, this is John. You have already met Maggie, but this is John." Cathy says.

There are three other people around the campfire, all holding instruments. It is a usual greeting around a campfire, friendly and hopeful. The instruments make it slightly different, though. After several days of planting palm trees, I find these people to be so alive and excited about life. I want them to play their music so that I can disappear beside the fire. Cathy is here, holding my hand, introducing me to her new friends. They say that they have heard about me. I say that gossip makes me nervous. They laugh and offer me a beer. I have wine in the van but a beer sounds better. I look at Cathy first to see if I am wanted. She walks to the cooler and gets a beer. I take a chew and try to relax into my new situation. Everyone else is relaxed, so why can't I be? I sit by the fire and listen to their music, mostly blue grass and country stuff. I don't know any of it, but it sounds perfect. It is the perfect music for the moment and I am part of it. I am the listener, drinking the musicians' beer and contributing nothing but my presence. It is a small contribution but they seem to appreciate it. They bring me another beer after the first one is gone. Cathy sits next to me, smiling. She has a wonderful smile tonight. I thought she was beautiful but she seems more so beside the fire.

The music continues, the stars continue, the fire continues. All this endurance makes me tired. I want to find a warm bed; I begin to long for my van. These musicians will play throughout the night because they have endurance. Are they on cocaine? No, they are just happy musicians. They are momentarily in love. I have been the recipient of their love and their beer, but after several beers I am tired. I tell Cathy goodnight and walk down the beach alone. My dog is with me; she is hungry and feels neglected by my love. Feeding her, she forgets about my negligence. The musicians are still playing in the dark. Cathy still sits listening to them, her face highlighted by the fire. I can picture the highlights as I close my eyes. Something about her composure suggested that I should sleep alone. Something about their music indicated that I was a fling. Any more involvement with me would constitute a mistake. I pet my dog in bed and try to imagine her face in the firelight, but I cannot. I fall asleep alone with a bottle of wine and a package of tortellini, unopened.

(iii)

I sleep until dawn on my Sunday off. The dog is awake when I roll over, but she waits for me to rise. It is calm out and there is no surf, the beach seemingly so quiet. As I get dressed, I swat a couple of mosquitoes. Life and death are one, momentarily. The mosquitoes are beginning to get bad on calm days. I look around my van and loose count of the mosquitoes, some alive and some mere blood marks on the ceiling. They are simply trying to make a living but they are doing it honestly. There is no second guessing with a mosquito. I immediately know what they want from me. For this I highly regard mosquitoes, but as a human, it is my job to kill them. I tolerate them for hours but suddenly go into a killing spree. A mosquito doesn't know what to expect from me. I'm not as honest.

We leave the van and walk beside a lazy tide toward the more deserted section of beach. The surf is so calm that I can walk in wet, hard sand in a linear fashion. I don't have to change my course for the unusually large wave. There are no large waves today; there are no waves, period. I chase down and pick up a crab. He retreats into his shell. I stick my finger in his shell just to bother him, but he does nothing. Will I eat him? It wouldn't make much of a meal. He has nothing to worry about. He doesn't know that but I do. The crab is much more straightforward than I am. He is dependable and predictable like a good watch. I don't know what I am, but predictable doesn't come to mind. I'm not certain about dependability.

Maggie has found a piece of driftwood, heavy and wet. It is like throwing a log but I throw it because she doesn't seem to mind retrieving it. The throws do not have much distance, more lazy like the tide this morning. Eventually, I get tired of throwing the damn thing and tell her so. She looks at me, picks up the stick, and carries it down the beach, tail wagging. I stop to pick up a plastic bottle. It is yellow with black Chinese lettering. I wonder where it has been. It seems to have had an adventurous life and I begin to envy its life. I think about my own life and it seems pretty close to that of this yellow beach trash with black lettering. The lettering is as incomprehensible to me as I'm sure my life is to some folks and I quit envying it.

When we get back to the van, Cathy has just finished making coffee. I am parked near her car and tent. Am I crowding her? She is happy to see the dog but she doesn't address me. I feel like I am imposing but part of me desires lechery. I look at her and feel the fool. She had her fling with me and wants nothing more of it. I make her nervous.

"Damn right you make her nervous. If I were you, I would drive away now to prevent acting like a fool. Just get in that old van and drive away, that is if it will run." Brian is leaning against the VW driver's door. He is shaking his head in disbelief. I look at Cathy and then back at the van. Brian is gone. He must be inside the van. I open the driver's door and look inside. No Brian. Where did he go? I start to get inside, to start the engine and drive away.

"You will have coffee with me this morning? You're not leaving, are you?" she says.

She is beside me, touching my arm. I don't know what to do. I look at her blankly, then suspiciously. "I thought I made you nervous. I thought maybe I should leave."

"Oh, John, I was making coffee for us. We have lots to talk about. Don't you think? Don't leave. Stay and drink coffee and talk to me. Please."

"Don't trust her, John," Brian says.

"I don't know if I trust you right now," I say.

She lowers her head, raises it and looks at me. "Things have become really complicated between us. I am partially to blame. I was rude to you. But you can't just take off without saying goodbye. Come on, have some coffee and talk. You don't have to work, do you?"

"No, I don't have to do anything really," I say.

I get out of the van but my movements remain cautious. I feel as though I am tripping on some psychedelic. I wish I were; then I would have a reason for my disjointed state. It is nice to label things into neat little boxes. They don't exist but the fantasy seems comforting. Reality is just so unpredictable. My boxes have weakened, now rotting and falling apart on the beach. I walk to her stove, a two burner propane stove that is easy to use, and sit on the soft sand. I take a hot cup from her and slowly sip the contents. It tastes wonderful. There are not any grounds left in my mouth after a sip. I feel cleansed and nurtured.

She has a wonderful smile. "John, I've missed you on this beach. I enjoy your company. It is good to drink coffee with you again."

"Ask her if she wants to have sex again. That is what you are thinking about, isn't it? Ask her, John." Brian is encouraging me to be direct.

"And sex? What about sex?" I say.

She takes a deep breath and looks away. I watch her while she collects her thoughts. She is trying to be polite. She is trying to be firm yet gentle. I wish we were like mosquitoes, but I don't think she would understand that thought.

"It was a fling. We both got caught up in the moment," She says after a moment of silence.

"What else is there to be caught up in? The future? Who knows about that? The past? Just images," I say.

"I don't want to have sex again because I will be leaving soon, a week or so. It seems to have become too complicated. You are wonderful, but you are really intense. I don't know if I can handle being so intimate with you again. I start to get too attached and then I want to run away."

"I wish we were like mosquitoes," I say.

"What?"

"Mosquitoes, they are so honest in their mode of life. Have sex, get some blood and lay some eggs. You always know where a mosquito stands."

"I don't think I like being compared with an insect. You are just so strange sometimes. I don't know what to think about you," she says.

"I don't know what to think about you, either. It is hard to figure out where I stand right now."

"You are a friend, but that's all. A friend that I might see again but most likely will not. I can't get too involved with someone that is just passing through my life. I feel like we went too far before. We crossed a boundary that we shouldn't have."

"What boundary? Boundaries are just superficial restrictions. They don't have any true meaning. If you are talking about sex, just say sex. If you don't want to have sex anymore, fine. Let's just say so. If you want to still hang out and talk, walk the beach and that sort of shit, just say so. Be direct," I demand.

"OK. I don't want to have sex anymore, but I would like to spend time together." she says.

"What about the piano man? Are you still worried about him?" I ask.

"No. Not so much anymore. I think he is simply a harmless freak. He doesn't worry me as much."

"But I worry you?"

"Sometimes, but in a different sort of way. I worry that you may lose touch with reality," she says.

"If you can tell me what is real, I will show you billions of people who have lost touch with reality. I haven't been able to define it for myself. I am beginning to think I should give up trying. I don't know. Maybe it is the only thing in life worth trying to find... So yeah, I'm not in touch with reality yet. Are you?"

"I don't know. I think so at times."

"What if you are just in touch with illusions?" I ask.

"Is that what you are?"

"Sometimes," I say.

"I guess I am, too," she admits.

I am beginning to feel less disjointed. Maybe the talking is helping. Maybe my illusions are simply passing, but they will come again. "So no sex, too bad, but time spent together, talking and walking and such. I can live with that. You are too interesting to simply write off, to simply avoid due to uncomfortable circumstances."

"Thanks, I feel the same way," she says.

"You don't mind me parking my van here?"

"No, I prefer it, actually."

I get up and walk to the van. There is a bottle of red wine and package of tortellini that I bought to share. I return and hand them to her. She smiles.

"I thought we could have this last night, but it didn't happen. I didn't get around to eating. Well, I had a couple of beers, pork chop in every can. Are you interested?" She shakes her head. "Whenever you want. I just wanted to thank you."

"Let's have it now. It will make a good breakfast," she says.

## XV

(i)

The weather looks promising today. I don't know what there is to promise, but it is a bright, clear day. It is one of those days when I feel work will be enjoyable and productive. Where is Shane? I wonder if Shane will feel the same way. I imagine he will call me an idealistic hippie. He will say that the sight of all those palm trees will put life back into a proper perspective. He will sneer at my enthusiasm and laugh at me when I get tired of digging. Today will be different. I will not get bored with the repetition, not tire of digging.

"Of course you will." Ben is taking a break from looking at flowers. He must need some flowers for his beach house. Is it a beach house or a RV? I really don't know. It doesn't matter. "You will start digging holes and forget about any promise you made yourself this morning. You will grow sick of your unskilled labor and long for something better, something with more challenge. You won't get a job like that, though. Better stick to digging."

I look at the sun and then back at the truck. It is hard to see the truck after looking at the sun. The sun holds so much promise but the truck looks so mundane. Maybe I am just an idealistic fool. Maybe Ben is right. I don't really like him but I do have to respect his accomplishments. He gets to the profit margin quickly. Dreaming about life is a complete waste of time from his perspective. I am quite the dreamer.

"Hey, dude. Hey, dude, stop dreaming." It is one of the big laborers who was planting shrubs on the golf course. "Hey, dude, I don't think we've met. I'm Jim."

"I'm John, John Jones. I saw you planting shrubs on the golf course. I think you flipped us off when I waved."

"I just like to give Shane shit. Don't think nothin' of it. You got the hard job on that course. I wouldn't want it, especially not behind that boom truck. I don't trust that thing and you know they ain't got no insurance on the thing."

"That's what I've heard."

"Make Shane drive that thing. Don't do it." He is shaking his head with a serious look in his eyes. "You like beer? You drink beer?"

"Sure. I drink beer."

"You should come over tonight." He looks over at the rest of the crew standing beside pots of flowers and shrubs. They smile and tip their heads. I smile back and then look at Jim. "Me and the guys gonna be drinking some beer tonight. You should come and have a beer with us."

Shane is approaching. Jim smiles and says hi to Shane. Shane says hello but then looks away. He climbs into the truck and starts the engine to let it warm up. I think he will come back and talk to us, but he stays in the truck, eventually closing the door.

"I should probably go. Nice to meet you," I say.

"Hey, sure. Come have some beers with us. Be something different than sitting around that beach at night."

I get in the truck but remain silent. After a few minutes, I say the day might hold some promise, and Shane tells me I've been living in a van too long. He suggests that I took too much LSD when I was younger. Promise is bullshit. Reality is a pile of palm trees to be planted and sore muscles when the day is over. I say that he sounds like Ben. When he asks who Ben is, I tell him that they will surely meet sometime. I tell him that Ben simply shows up at random moments, says a few things, and disappears again. He's one of those types.

"What did Jim have to say to you?"

"He invited me over for beers tonight. I think him and the other guys that plant shrubs are going to drink beer. You interested?"

"No. And you shouldn't be either. Those guys have this little pact. He will invite you over with all the guys. They will get you drunk, acting like they are your best friends. Once you get drunk, they will start giving you shit. They will try to piss you off, try to get you to say something back. When you do, they will gang up on you and beat the shit out of you. It is their form of entertainment."

"How do you know all this?" I ask.

"They did it to me a few years ago. They did it to the drifter last summer."

"The guy that got stuck with the ticket?" I ask.

"Yeah, that guy. He got his ass kicked and got stuck with a ticket, all in a two month period."

We stop at the convenience store before going to the golf course. I get a cup of coffee and some Copenhagen. It is the breakfast of cowboys. I'm not a cowboy but I like them. I don't mean the concrete cowboys. They scare me a bit, but the true working cowboys don't scare me. I feel comfortable with them because they love wide open spaces. There are plenty of true cowboys in Wyoming. I don't know about Texas. Texas is known for cowboys, but I don't see many cowboy boots on the beach. I thought I might see someone riding a horse down the beach, but all I've seen are cars, trucks, and RVs. I cautiously drink my coffee because it is hot. The warm paper cup feels good in my hands, which are becoming calloused.

(ii)

On the golf course, we back up the boom truck slowly to the pile. The pile of palm trees doesn't seem as promising as the bright sun seemed in the shop parking lot. Where is that early morning enthusiasm? Now it simply feels like another day. Shane can sense my change of mood and laughs at me for it. I get out of the cab, leaving my coffee on the dash. I wrap the tree and get out of the way. The tree groans and the chain creaks as the winch begins to work. I stand twenty feet back, watching the tree swing about its chain. My mood has swung like the tree but I don't recognize a winch in my life. Maybe Ben is my winch. I sense his presence and turn quickly to confront him. I see nothing, only the green of the golf course and the blue of the sky. Green and blue, green and blue.

As we drive to the next tree location, Shane decides to talk. We can spend long periods of time without saying a word to one another, but this morning Shane seems to be in a chatty mood. He asks me about life on the road. Do I get lonely? Do I simply pick up whatever work I can find whenever I run out of money? Have I been doing it for long? I can't believe he is showing so much interest in my life. We are digging and he is interested. He asks me if I pick up hitchhikers now that I have a van.

"Tell him about that guy you left on the side of the road. You left that guy in a bad spot." Brian is reminding me of a guy on an interstate in Texas. Maybe Brian is my winch.

"I'm not your winch. You fluctuate on your own. I help you." Brian says.

In a few minutes, Shane repeats the question. "Do you pick up hitchhikers now that you have a van?"

"Yes. Well, usually."

"Tell him about that guy on the interstate. You left that guy. Bad karma." Brian says.

"When do you decide not to pick up a hitchhiker?" Shane asks.

"There was a guy I didn't pick up on the way here. He was on the interstate beneath an overpass that had no interstate ramps. He was sitting, hunched over, in a large brown jacket with hood. The only thing sticking out of his jacket was a red beard. As I approached, he began to show his face and began to pump his thumb in the air. He was demanding a ride, not from someone in general but from me in particular. I couldn't figure out why he was there, so far from a town or other highway. And he was just sitting, hunched over. I couldn't decide if he had been thrown out of a ride or if he had to leave a ride. Sometimes a ride can get too weird and you just have to get out, even if it is far from an intersection."

We dig, the hole getting deeper and the pile of sand getting larger. The sand is wet and heavy, but it digs easily with a sharp spade. Our spades are sharp. Shane makes sure of it.

"So what made you finally decide to leave that guy on the highway?" Shane asks.

"Well, I had a wave of guilt wash over me as I passed the guy, but I had a bad feeling. There was too much uncertainty to give him a ride, too many things that seemed odd. And the way he was pumping his thumb into the air. It was like a child demanding a new toy. Demanding."

"So you still felt guilty about leaving the dude?"

"Sure. I wonder if it will come back on me. I wonder if I will find myself stranded on the highway, waiting as thousands of cars pass. And then I remembered the apprehension I had as soon as I saw him. Then the guilt faded and I continued in the heavy traffic that is interstate Texas." I say.

"I wouldn't have felt guilty. Fuck him for demanding a ride from you. I would have left him there too."

"Do you ever pick up hitchhikers?" I ask.

"No. Well, I do when there is a broken down car on the highway. Those folks like you with a backpack, never. I figure those people need to get a job instead of begging for a ride."

"What if they are trying to get to a job?" I ask.

"They should get a car."

"What if their engine needs to be rebuilt and they are out of money?" I ask.

"Somebody like me?"

"You."

"I got a job and my truck will be running soon. They ain't like me. You ain't like me. I like a home and a paycheck at the end of the week. I don't like to just hang out and I don't like being poor. Someday I'm gonna make more money again. I done it before and I'm gonna do it again." Shane is becoming defensive.

We are driving again, first gear slowness. I wonder what Cathy and Maggie are doing on the beach, hoping they are having fun together. I'm glad that Maggie is not tied to the van for the day and I wish I could be with them instead of working. It is mid-morning and I am already bored with the repetition.

"You were so full of shit this morning. You should drop the hippie optimism." I am wrapping another tree and Brian is watching. That is all Brian has ever done in life, watched. I can't think of one time when he took a big chance. He mostly drinks bourbon and coke with his family's money. I can't recall any employment in life. How long have I known him? Six years. Six years and no employment.

I climb back into the truck. I wish I had some more coffee, but it was finished over an hour ago. Lunch will come soon. Shane and I decide to plant this tree and then take a lunch break, a chew. The truck moves slowly down the ruff, passing our efforts. The trees look good. I think they will live and I say this to Shane. He says to wait a month or more. If they last more than a couple of months, they will probably make it until the next freeze. It is hard to tell how many of them will live through a freeze. Shane has been doing this for a long time. In this truck he is the expert. I enjoy my tobacco.

(iii)

In the afternoon, nearing time to quit, we honk the horn at a worker taking a siesta. He is part of the shrub planting crew. He ran out of work but decided to hide instead of look for more. We have found him and he makes us promise not to tell the others. We offer him a ride. As we drive slowly down the ruff, backs tired from digging holes and pushing up trees, he tells us the day's gossip.

"So Mark didn't show up for work this morning. He didn't call in or nothin'. About noon, you know, lunch time, this big biker guy comes storming into the shop. He is screaming at people, looking for Mark. He is really big, strong and covered with tattoos. Scares the shit out of all the folks there. Jason comes out and tells the guy that Mark didn't come to work today. The guy gets pissed and breaks a pot against the mechanics shop."

"Does he know that Mark works back in that shop?" I ask.

"Yep, he knows Mark works back there so he is looking around, yelling. Jason tells him again that Mark ain't around. Tells the guy to leave or the cops will be called. Tells the guy to look for Mark on the state beach."

"Jason told the guy where Mark lives?" I ask.

"Yep, but the guy didn't want to leave. The secretary called the cops. The guy only left when he was told the cops were on the way. He looked furious, muscles and vanes bulging."

"Were you there?" I ask the guy.

"No, but Jim was. He told us all about it when he came back. Told us just like I told you. Mark's crazy, but I think this dude could put the hurt on Mark."

"What was it all about?" Shane asks.

"It's over some woman, the guy's wife."

"Looks like Mark's been fooling around. You know anything about it, John?" Shane asks.

"No. I don't know anything about it. I've been on the other beach lately."

"You still got tail in your van." Shane asks.

"If you mean that woman, no. I guess it was just a fling. She does have the dog today. I will see her tonight, but the romance seems to have faded."

"I don't know whether to believe you. Maybe this girl was an imaginary lover." Shane says.

"I don't really care what you believe about my personal life." I say.

The worker we picked up stays with us for the rest of the day. I forget to introduce myself so I don't catch his name and Shane never mentions it. We talk a little, but not much. The work seems more casual because only two can dig at a time. Three people digging at once are too crowded so we take turns resting on a shovel. I am resting on my shovel when the hole is finished. Shane backs up the tree, lowering the ball into the hole. The chain slackens and I unwrap the tree. This time we push up the tree with three workers. Oh, it seems so much easier, not really a strain at all. Shane and I smile.

(iv)

When I leave work at the end of the day I drive to the state beach. I am looking for Mark's car, not that I will do anything. I am just curious and hopeful that he is still alive. A man with a cast cannot possibly put up a fair fight. It is hard to kick some ass with a cast. I can't fight. I'm not going to get involved; I am simply a voyeur. I drive the beach but see no sign of his car, his camper, or his tire marks in the sand. It is as if Mark never existed. I stop at the oil driller's RV and knock on the door. The girl opens the door. She is standing above me so that I have to look up when I talk to her. She is wearing a thin white t-shirt, no bra. Her belly is showing above unbuttoned pants. She invites me inside. I stay on the sand. I am simply curious and ask her if she has seen Mark today. She doesn't know Mark until I describe him. No, she hasn't seen him. No, the oil driller isn't home. Am I sure that I don't want to come inside? Yes, I'm sure. The oil driller won't be back tonight. He is checking on a drilling job and won't be back until sometime tomorrow. I ask her how she has been and she has been fine. Am I sure that I don't want to come inside with her? She has beer and would love to share it with me. She would love to get drunk with me because it is more fun than getting drunk alone. I ask if she is working these days. She says she quit looking for work. Maybe she will work during the spring break season, but now she doesn't worry about working. She is more worried about being lonely tonight. No, I don't think I can have a beer with her. I want to get back to the other beach. I say goodbye and get back into my van. She watches me until I drive away. I guess she went back inside the old RV and drank beer alone.

As I drive away, Brian calls me a coward. He says I am not a real man. I drive to the National Seashore doubting my manhood. I didn't doubt it before but I doubt it now. I drive past the piano man, hidden in his camper, consumed by his television. Shorebirds fly in front of my van. Why don't they just stop and let me pass? Why are they always running? Why am I always running? I see Cathy's car and tent in the distance. I see my dog chewing on a stick. She recognizes the sound of my van and runs toward it. I stop and open the door. She attacks me with excitement. Cathy is cooking. She has the John Fante book that I gave her to read. It is in her hand when I approach the stove. She opens it and pulls out a piece of paper. It is a poem that I wrote, a poem that I have forgotten about until now. She reads it to me.

Borger, town of 60's oil boom fame

now boarded and quiet on a Thursday night

now with a hypothermic drifter, middle-aged

wandering since his wife committed suicide

with a gun

wandering again

since his girlfriend is a crackhead

trying to turn tricks

living with a black 60 year old crack dealer

leaving Dean

but she wants to marry

to be a Mom, a sober Mom

a present Mom

with Dean in Alaska

but finds only crack and cheap wine

cigarettes

in Boulder the hip town

losing weight and beauty

with Dean in the psych ward

doctors saying to leave her

his nerves, it's the nerves

and depression, manic

but mostly depressed

telling me his story

me eager for something to break the monotony

Texas

rain

it was Florida, then Ohio, then Arizona, then Montana, then Wyoming, then Texas, then Ohio, then North Carolina, then Colorado,

now Texas

But this ain't permanent

Alaska!

survey work

themes of bars and drugs and chasing tail

to another town

Not this time

so humiliating to stand on the road now

Not when he was young

but now

now he wants a car and home and clothes and money

and NASCAR on Sundays

country music the rest of the week

And am I looking at myself in twenty years?

is this me again and again and again

cold on a highway

me now proud of my old van

dripping water on me as it rains

this oil burning van without a heater

And is there a sane woman for me? a loving woman, committed

as I wander with myself, older, cold and wet

She stops reading and looks at me. "This could be you in twenty years. Don't let it. Please, tell me you won't let it happen."

## XVI

(i)

I stand outside my van, looking inside and wondering who has slept there before me. How many years? Over twenty years of countless miles that have been characterized by slow progression do not die easily.

I stare into the front window hoping to see into myself, hoping to find some answers into the complexity of my existence. I look and see nothing, though I constantly analyze in an effort to compartmentalize my life. Am I looking for peace of mind? I thought I had it in the morning with an hour of walking before dawn. It was me and the dog and the tide. The first birds I could distinguish were some pelicans gliding over the surf. Stroke, stroke, stroke, stroke, glide for a minute, stroke, stroke, glide. As the day progressed, though, my contentment began to wane and my confusion mounted. It was a typical day really, but I managed to find confusion in the digging.

Earlier, we stopped at the convenience store on the way back to the shop. I was stopping something, but what I was not sure. I was stopping my mind. I bought a cup of coffee and a paper. Shane bought some beer for a quality night with the pit bull. He will sit on a couch in the trailer and watch TV. It will probably be crap TV but he will be stoned and drunk; boring TV will suddenly seem interesting or at least tolerable. As Shane drove to the shop I read the sports page. There will be a basketball game on TV. It will be the only college team that I'm interested in, a perennial underdog. I hoped that sensory awareness would climax with the visual deluge that is television. I wanted an escape.

We pulled into the shop and I clocked out. Did Mark show up today? No signs of Mark today, but no news of a gun shootout on the beach. Mark is hiding but he is with a woman, a woman of mystery.

Now, I stare into the windshield of my van, hoping to see into myself. I want to see my dog but I don't want to see Cathy. I don't want to talk. I am too confused for conversation. Television is safe, especially in a bar. I stop staring into the windshield of my van and climb inside. I start the engine, listening to it as it warms up.

(ii)

I drive down the main road to a bar, restaurant. I have some money. Payday. The bartender asks me if I want a beer, and of course I say yes. The bar is empty, neglected by the vacationing crowd. Wait, they are not here yet. That is next month.

I love this team on television, this loser, this classic loser hoping to find an opponent that will falter on this given day. This team is constantly questioning, hoping to find the secret to a win. Someplace, somebody else is also excited about this team. They are not in this bar, but lack of proximity does not mean lack of existence. One win and the season will turn around, if they could only discover that one win. But I hope they fail again because to be the absolute worst is better than being mediocre. I sit and drink beer, cheering my team in an empty bar, looking for a good play but finally hoping that they will falter completely.

Am I faltering completely? I think not because I am still analyzing my existence. On the other hand, maybe if I stop analyzing, completely dissolve into the sky and surf, maybe then I will truly live. Presently, though, I am a distant observer in a life that seems so complex. It is probably quite simple to an outside observer, to a clear mind, but from my barstool it is too complex to resolve. I take another drink of beer and everything dissolves. Did I see that resolution? I watch the game and pretend that it matters in the least bit. I can't remember the last time I watched college basketball. I should build a shrine for this team I am watching. I should bring out the beer and chips and fatty meat for this holy moment. It is a religious holiday with college fans dissolving into a play at the same moment though they may be separated by distance, beliefs, and ideologies. Everything dissolves into a slam dunk. I cheer and then I wonder why.

The bar is empty except for me and the bartender. I give him a good tip when I order another beer. Should I have a shot? No, I need to pace myself for the second half.

"Anything else? Want a shot?" he asks.

"Sure. Jack Daniels," I say.

He gives me one for free to finish out the bottle. I drink it and am genuinely grateful. Tomorrow, I might not be grateful, but at this moment I would give him my life if he would want it. He probably doesn't. A lone guy in a bar on a random winter day is probably not the life he is looking for. I think about this but I don't say anything, saying thanks instead. My team (now I have claimed these strangers as my own, my type, my kind) hits a three point shot with a foul. I cheer again, laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Someone has to be the lone fan in an empty bar. The bartender just laughs at my excitement since there is no chance that my team will win. He looks at me and decides, confidently, that I won't win anything either. He serves me another beer out of pity and I take it with gratitude.

As I start to drink the last beer, Brian says: "Why are you cheering for this team? They suck. They always have and always will suck. You remember when we went to the games, don't you? They were so bad that we didn't watch. We got drunk instead, talking and trying to meet sorority girls. There are no girls in this bar. Nothing here but you and a pathetic game."

"Well, what are you doing here?" I ask Brian.

"Oh, just a job. Waiting for spring and summer. Then the place is happening. Then I'll make some good money." the bartender says. "You gonna be here for spring break?"

"Hell no. He's gonna quit his job and get off this island," says Brian.

"You gonna be here for spring break?" the bartender repeats.

"Hell no. I'm returning west." I say.

"Too bad 'cause that's the time to be here. Not now. Now is pretty dead, as you can see."

"Like you, John, pretty dead." Brian laughs.

I turn away from Brian and look at the game, taking a large drink of beer. What am I gonna do? I begin to feel nervous.

"What are you nervous about, John?" Brian laughs.

"Nothing!" I say in a whisper.

"What's that?" asks the bartender. He begins to stare at me. I look away, first toward Brian and then to the game. "Did you..." the bartender begins, but then stops. "You alright over there? You seem a little confused."

I begin to slowly rock back and forth on my barstool. I take a deep breath and look at the game, stopping to drink beer.

"You OK, man?" The bartender repeats.

"Hell no, he's not OK. He's beginning to realize that he's a bum." Brian says while laughing.

"Fuck off!" I whisper.

"What did you say?" Demands the bartender.

I take a last drink from my beer and stand. "Thanks for the beer, but I've got to go." I walk to the door, stop, and turn to see the game.

"Take it easy, buddy," the bartender says.

I turn and walk out the door. He won't see me again, no way.

(iii)

I leave the bar and drive to the National Seashore. I don't want to see Cathy, but I do want to see my dog. There is nothing wrong with Cathy but she is another complexity in my life. The dog is simple, absolutely no complexity with the dog. It is nearing dusk and I'm sure she is hungry. She is predictable that way. It is time to eat, time for both of us to eat. Cathy has a fire going near her tent. There is a slight breeze, and between the breeze and the smoke, she has managed to keep the mosquitoes away. I wallow with the dog in the soft sand. That is another way Maggie is predictable. She is always so excited to see me. Everyone says hello.

When I arrive, Cathy begins to ask about the day. I say it was confusing until I watched my college basketball team on TV in a bar. Then I remember Brian at the bar, but I don't say anything about Brian to Cathy.

"Your college basketball team? How long were you in college? A couple of months? Did you even attend class?"

"That's beside the point. I was enrolled, and I fell in love with their losing sports teams. I have some loyalty in life."

"Did you eat or did you just drink beer?" she asks.

"I ate some chips." I am feeding the dog while I talk. "I thought I could eat a can of chili and some tortillas."

Cathy lets me use her stove. The dog finishes her meal within a few minutes and I finish mine within ten. We are not good dinner guests, both belching when we are done. I look at the flames and start to toss the can in them. The dog smells the can, licking her lips. She wants the can so I give it to her. Cathy is concerned that Maggie will cut her tongue. I say we did this with dogs growing up. Her parents didn't eat out of cans, especially chili out of a can. I hope I am not wrong. I hope the dog doesn't cut her tongue. It could happen I suppose. I take the can away and throw it into the fire. Why did I do that? Hell, I have absolutely no idea why I did that and I don't want to try to understand why. I want to sit here by the fire and watch my entertainment. It is simpler than the basketball game, but I wish I were alone.

"Are you all right? You seem very distant tonight." she says.

"I feel very distant. It was a confusing day."

"What happened?" she asks.

"Nothing happened. It was the same old day of digging holes and planting palm trees. There was nothing unusual about it at all. But I felt confused all day like I was in a bad dream. It was like I was stuck and couldn't emerge from the sand. I couldn't get free. I could hardly work. I would dig but it was like someone else was doing the digging. It was just one of my strange days, stoned and disconnected."

"Were you stoned?" she asks.

"No. Shane was. He was less disconnected than I was."

"So you went and drank beer and watched basketball. Did that change anything?"

"Momentarily maybe. Not really."

"Of course it didn't change anything. It was one absolute loser watching another absolute loser." Brian is standing beside my van. I can barely tell he's there until he slowly walks toward the fire. "Life definitely gets better than this, John. Come on, get your shit together."

I turn away and begin to leave.

"Where are you going, John?" Cathy asks.

"I don't know. I just can't stand his voice."

"Whose voice?" She asks.

"His voice, you know, Brian there." I turn back to the fire but Brian is gone. "He's gone but he was here. You heard him, that rich belittling fuck."

"I didn't hear anything but you, John. There's no one else around." She says, concerned.

I look at the dog. Her tongue is bleeding. "Oh, fuck! Maggie cut her tongue like you said she would."

Cathy bends to check the dog. She searches for blood but finds nothing. I am squatted beside them. "Look, John, there's no blood. She's fine. It's OK."

I go to the van and get a flashlight. Cathy holds Maggie while I search for blood. There is nothing, absolutely nothing. "I swear I saw blood. I guess I'm just seeing things."

"And hearing things? Who is this Brian? A friend?" She asks.

"I wouldn't call him that. He just comes and goes. He was here. I heard him just like I hear you."

"Have you..." She starts to ask.

"What?" I interrupt.

"Have you ever seen anyone about this, talked to anyone about this?"

"You."

"No, I mean a...." She starts to ask but is interrupted by Mark.

"John, is that you?" It is Mark, yelling from the blackness.

"Hey, Mark, come on over."

Mark and a woman stumble into the campfire light. They are obviously drunk, staggering as they try to speak. He has a small pistol in his right hand, his good hand. He is saying how good it is to see me. He is asking me about work. No, I haven't seen the big biker. I didn't see him in the first place. Has anyone asked about Mark? Of course, Mark is the main gossip at work.

"That big biker you're talking about can go to hell. If he comes around here we're gonna put an end to him." It is Mark's woman, talking with a slur. She makes a motion like she is drawing a pistol and shooting.

"By the way, John, this is Brandy." We make introductions all around.

Cathy looks at the gun and mentions that it makes her nervous. I say that it makes me nervous as well, but there's no way he is going to put down the gun. The gun stays in Mark's hand until her ex is gone from town. I tell him we can see a car coming from far down the beach. I say he can set the gun down for a moment. Nothing will happen here.

"Mark's gonna protect me. That ex of mine, he's crazy. Got out of jail early. We didn't expect him to be out so soon."

"Look at her side. Show them your side." She lifts her shirt and in the flickering light we can see a long scar. "He almost killed her from beating the shit out of her. She had to call a friend to take her to the hospital. He wouldn't take her."

"And that ain't all. He broke my jaw once and my nose another time. But this time I'm clear of the asshole. This time I got Mark."

Mark pulls the gun up from his side and shoots into the dunes. Everyone except Mark jumps. My ears ring for several minutes. "I'll fuckin kill that guy. I've done it once before to some worthless piece of shit and I'll do it again... Tell him what your ex done to those kids. Tell him that."

"He gets out of jail the other day and comes looking for me. He's not supposed to come near my house but there he was. I wasn't there and he didn't believe they were telling the truth. He goes and gets a gun and busts back in the house with that gun. Kept them all there for hours, pointing the gun at kids and their moms. Hell, put the gun to a kid's head, yelling, 'Where is Brandy?'"

"Mark, please don't shoot that gun anymore. Please, not here. The whole thing makes me nervous." Cathy has a soft yet firm voice. I want them to leave, but I know that Cathy has a better chance of making it happen than I do.

"Where are you staying, Mark?"

"Down the beach a ways. Moved off the state beach. This place is more open. I can see him coming better. I gotta protect her. I can't let nothin' bad happen to her..." He puts his arm around her waist. "Maybe we should go back to our camper. I think we're making these folks nervous."

As they start to walk away, I tell him to take care of himself. Please don't have an accident with that loaded gun. Please don't kill the wrong person. I don't care about Brandy's ex. They leave and camp seems so empty. We don't say a word to each other for half an hour. We just look into the fire, the dog in the van. She ran there when Mark fired the gun. Cathy and I sit, manifesting driftwood flames.

"That is the first time I've had someone pull a gun around me. There were times hunting birds, but that was different. I didn't like tonight." There is a long pause. "Have you ever had a gun pulled on you before?" she asks.

"In Freer, Texas. I pulled into an empty lot and went to sleep in the van. There was a knock on the door and when I looked out the window, there was a shotgun pointed at my head, inches away."

"What did you do?"

"I talked to that guy like you talked to Mark. I used a passive voice. He finally let me go."

"Were you scared?"

"Of course. Just like tonight."

## XVII

(i)

It is an overcast day at work, and though it is an overcast day throughout the island, it seems most appropriate at work. I am wearing sun glasses today. I never wear sun glasses but today I am protecting myself from the sheltered sun. I dig a hole with Shane and then we stand up a tree. It is an exceptionally large tree and my shades hide my bulging eyes. We finish filling in the hole and packing the sand around the tree. I've been working for over an hour and I just now notice that Shane is wearing sun glasses, too.

Life around me takes on dimness. It is not dimness like dusk; it is a forced dimness. Melancholy, nothing but imprisoned passions. I can feel it in my fingertips, taste it in my mouth, feel it burn my eyes. A thin ray of light pierces the clouds and lands on the fairway. I can't stand to look at it. It looks so hopeful. Maybe that will be tomorrow. Tomorrow can be hopeful, but not today. Today is dim. We have worked for over an hour and not said one word to each other. I think Shane feels the same way I do, or maybe he is just perceptive and knows when to leave me alone.

I think about Irish whisky and its essence on my lips. I run my tongue over my lips in an attempt to capture the image, but it is lost on me. I could drive by a liquor store before going home, but I decide not to. I don't need to spend the money and drinking whisky will only leave me more depressed. We are driving to the pile of palm trees, the shrinking pile near the club house. I look about the cab. It is a depressing site. It is beat up like a seasoned drunk, seat having collected dirt and stains for 40 years, never cleaned, cracking under our weight. I love this cab, this depressed cab that can see all its friends dying. I can relate to this cab and want to be in no other place. It allows my emotions to slowly pass after sitting for a period of time. I can swat them like a single, nagging mosquito—dead. One at a time they will die and I will be the executioner of myself—self killing self.

I get out of the cab and wrap the chain around another palm tree. It swings into the air, unbalanced. I tell Shane to lower the tree. I try it again and this time we are ready to work. This time we are balanced. I climb back into the cab. Light is hitting the seat, showing one of the cracks. I have a chew, a precious taste of addiction. God, how I love addiction! Life is about creating prisons. If you create enough prisons you get to begin breaking free. You have to create them first. Oh, I love my creations. I open the door at our next planting spot and spit. I spit on the green grass. It looks so happy and I don't want to be happy. The clouds can't be breaking. Damn that sun, making everything warm and green. I want wet and cool. I want to spit on the green grass.

(ii)

I remember a dish washing job that I once had. I remember my coworkers complaining that I wasn't fast enough. I didn't see the rush or the need for neurotic perfection and timeliness. Was ten minutes going to bring the hospital to a panicking halt? I wasn't certain that the hospital patients and staff really noticed us until they talked about the food. It was a consensus—sub par. I said the hell with that job. No more piles of dishes for me. I hit the open road, clean and straight and free of trash. I cleansed myself with the passing range and fed myself with the fields of grain. My mind solidified with attentiveness and dissolved with passing clouds. I wandered, discovering new lifestyles. I dreamed of gracious bosses giving promotions and raises. I dreamed of hours spent idle on endless road trips.

I wonder if those folks are still stuck at that job. Oh, the sweating and screaming. I hope they are miserable in that job, struggling for a quarter an hour raise. I have found hours spent idle on endless road trips. I have not found gracious bosses giving promotions or raises. Career development is such a bazaar concept to me. A five year plan? Give me a five minute plan and let's shake on it. Tomorrow? Hell, tomorrow I might not be here anymore. If you need me to promise to tomorrow, I will, but not to five years. We push up another tree and finish filling in the hole.

"That is a major problem in the modern market economy."

What in the hell is Ben talking about?

"I'm talking about your inability to commit. A five year plan is essential today. You will always be a drifter if you can't commit to a five year plan for yourself."

Then maybe I'll always be a drifter. Maybe life on the road is my reality. My dog doesn't have a problem with it. I am thinking these things, but Ben can hear my thoughts.

"Your dog is with Cathy. She likes spending the day with Cathy."

(iii)

"Hey, hey, man. What's with you today? You seem more distant than usual. Hardly a word all day long." Shane is suddenly becoming sociable. I don't think I am, but I decide to try.

"Well, now that I'm talking, did that big dude show up looking for Mark a second time?" I ask.

"No, not that I know of. You heard anything about Mark?" he says.

"Saw him last night with his lady friend."

"Where?"

"Can't say. What I can say is they were worried about her ex. They seemed to be preparing themselves for his possible arrival. Guy sounds like bad news," I say.

"I don't think he's gonna have a job left if he ever decides to show up. How many days has it been now?"

"I know what you mean. It's been a few." I agree.

That's all we say for the day. We drive back to work to the sound of an old straight six. The sky is partly cloudy and we are both wearing sun glasses. Life doesn't seem as dim as it once did, but it doesn't seem sunny either. Life simply seems raw, plain and raw. I look at Shane. He seems plain and raw. I wonder what he will do tonight but I don't ask him. I can find that out tomorrow. Today I want to be left alone. I want to be left to my cracked seat and overcast sky. God, I hope it stays overcast. I don't think I can stand a pretty sunset.

(iv)

I clock out after work and walk to my van. Maybe she thinks I know something. Maybe she thinks I am stable, but I don't think she is that naive. My dog doesn't care but I think Cathy might. We are not sleeping together, but we still seem too involved for a passing beach acquaintance. Is she passing? I think she is most of the time, but there are times when I think we will settle into an apartment with wood floors. It will be small and inconspicuous, but it will be a couple thing to do. What am I talking about? I am a van guy and I like to hit the road every few months. She is the stable career type living in an Austin apartment and dreaming of a fulfilling relationship with cats and dogs. I have a dog. Does that count? No cats, though. I wonder if she wants children. Children are a frightening concept to me. Conceiving children is not a difficult concept, but raising and providing for children is inconceivable. I can hardly take care of myself, much less an innocent child. I would never want to bring a child into my existence. There is no way that a meaningful, lasting relationship could develop between the two of us.

The hell with everything. I drive my van alone, toward the beach, looking for my dog and my pretend girlfriend. The hell with everything.

I drive onto the National Seashore and look for the piano man. I don't want to talk to him. I simply want to flip him off, to tell him that I have begun to hate him for no other reason than he is himself. I disgust his mannerisms, his comments, his total manifestations. He makes me want to load my shotgun with duck shot and shoot him in the balls for a slow, painful death. Do you know what I mean?

"Yes, I totally know what you mean. That guy is trouble. He is dedicated evil. He said so himself. Don't let him near Cathy or Maggie. No telling what he will do to them." Brian is riding with me. He is in the passenger seat and he is making sense for once. He is being logical, not simply a drunk, rich kid.

"You know Brian, I think you are completely right. I hate that fucker and I haven't hated anyone in years. He must be dedicated evil for me to hate him so." I drive down the beach, slowly. There is no hurry in my mood. I feel I can wait hours for dinner. I have worked hard but I am not hungry. I am patient. I can wait for nightfall, campfires and casual conversation with Cathy.

(vi)

There is Al's car, his dog, and his face in my camp. This is our camp, but Al is not part of the "our". Cathy is there. Maggie is barking at his dog, barking at the piano man. Maggie is the siren, the signal for the protector. Who is to be the protector? That must be me. I pull to a stop and get out of the van.

"The hell with your dog. She is nothing more than a flea infested hole digger. She will dig your grave, and it will not be soon enough. I think you should be buried on this beach. It would put your miserable existence into a sandy hole for a fitting end to a pathetic life." Al is tight-jawed, eyes attacking.

I'm standing near the fire ring. There is no fire but I wish there was one. Cathy comes to me, hugging me and thanking me that I have arrived. My dog is still barking at him, at his dog in the station wagon. His dog is barking, mouth hitting the passenger window.

"Would you please leave us alone. We don't want you around here. Please leave," I say.

"Oh, aren't you the perfect couple. If you are so perfect, why aren't you sleeping together any more? Little Johnnie is alone in the van. Can't he get it up any more?" Al says.

"Leave! You're not wanted here. We don't like you." Cathy is holding me, yelling at Al.

"It would be beautiful to see the two of you holding one another in a van full of flames. And that dog of yours. Watch for meat scraps, little perfect protector. Watch what you put in your mouth."

"Don't take this shit from this asshole." Brian has rolled down the passenger window. He is serious. He is looking directly at me.

The piano man comes closer, invading the privacy of our campsite. He was already an intruder, but now he seems too invasive. I leave Cathy and open the sliding door. I pull the shotgun from beneath the bed.

"Is little Johnnie running into his tomb? Is little Johnnie scared to be the big man? Come on, little Johnnie. Come on and show your manhood in front of your little darling. Oh, the little darling that will no longer sleep with you. Can't you get it up, little Johnnie?" He walks toward the van, grasping for Cathy.

"Don't take this shit, John." Brian is looking at the shells.

I grab the box of shells and quickly load the shotgun. I take off the safety as I swing around and point the gun in Al's face. I put my finger on the trigger and start to constrict my muscles.

"Oh, little John Wayne. Gonna kill me and make everything OK. Maybe then you would get laid."

"Get the fuck out of my face or I will kill you today," I say.

He backs away slowly. "You seem so western. Not like a hippie at all. You seem like a real native Texan. Or better, like someone who was kicked out of Wyoming."

I lower the gun to his balls and tell him that I will not kill him immediately. I will shoot him in the balls and let him die in a slow agony. He says that he doubts me, but he is still walking backwards, slowly. Cathy is standing in the fire pit. She is watching, not saying a word. Then she finally speaks.

"Please leave, Al. Please leave and let us be. We don't want any trouble, do we, John?"

"Johnnie doesn't have the balls to want any trouble. He just feels important with that gun in his hands. Watch out. It may not be here tomorrow."

I shoot at his feet. The sand blows around him as he jumps into the air. There are two more shells. He backs up slowly, faster, and then retreats to his station wagon. He drives away without saying another word. I hold the gun at him, following his station wagon as it retreats into the darkness.

(vi)

"I can't believe this is happening." Cathy sits on the edge of the van's floor, feet in the sand. She is rubbing her face, massaging her eyes. "We actually used the gun." She pauses, dropping her hands to her lap. "At least it was effective—he's gone. No one's hurt and he left. Perfect, right?"

"I don't know. It doesn't feel very perfect." I say as I hand the unloaded gun to Cathy.

"No, it doesn't." She holds the gun, turns, stands, and places it inside the van near the bed. Returning to her seat on the floor, she takes a deep breath, then another. "I feel like I haven't been breathing. I feel out of breath."

"I feel like I'm on acid. Things seem so intangible and amorphous. At one moment he was so close; the next, so far away. The gun felt so light, light enough to be an extension of my arms. After he left, it felt like one of those palm trees. It was all I could do to hand it to you." I pause, then I ask, "Did all that really happen or am I hallucinating?"

"You aren't hallucinating, at least not about Al. It sounds strange for me to say this, but thank you." Cathy reaches out to touch my hand.

"Why does thank you sound strange?" I ask.

"I never thought I would thank someone for using a gun on another human being."

"I hope you don't mind, but I need to be alone for a few minutes. Nobody but me, not even a dog. I'll be right down there." I point to the surf, then begin to walk away. "I just have to go for a bit," I mumble as I leave.

(vii)

It is dark, dark enough that images are hard to see. There is the soft sand, a texture for my feet to feel secure despite a vagueness of form disorienting my eyes. I walk alone, not far, just far enough to feel isolated. I find a spot close enough to see the light of the van but far enough to feel alone.

"You're not alone. You're never alone because I'm always with you. Haven't I been with you for all your travels? Wasn't I with you in Wyoming?" Brian is acting like my friend. I guess reoccurrence can constitute friendship.

I think about him, his voice dominating the conversation. Why is he always there? Why does he suddenly emerge and disappear? How can he exist, in that same state, for years without ever working? Is he real? If not, why does he seem as real as anything else I've experienced? Maybe I don't understand reality. Maybe I don't understand my mind.

"Fuck!" I scream.

I sit on the sand, cross my legs, and clinch my hair. I begin to rock back and forth in my seated position. The sound of tide overwhelms me, making me feel vulnerable and impermanent.

"Of course you are impermanent. What did you think you would be? Do you think you have any meaning in life greater than a wave crashing a beach?" Brian is out there someplace, hidden by the dark.

"Fuck you! Where are you? Leave me alone."

There is laughter, fading. I am rocking, looking into darkness but finding nothing.

"That is because you are nothing. The thought of being something was only an illusion. What can you really believe?" Ben is out there too. Brian is still laughing softly and Ben is with him. Ben is not laughing, though. He is sighing.

"Fuck your pompous sigh, Ben!" I yell. I throw sand toward the surf and then in the other three directions. Their presence becomes faint, fading into darkness, fading into life's lack of meaning.

I pull a pocket knife out of my pocket, untuck my shirt, and cut my stomach. I feel the blood bead up along the cut. I run my finger along the cut and lift it to my mouth, tasting the blood.

Is this real?

I make another cut on my stomach, then another. The blood beads up along the cuts, more superficial than dangerous. I run my finger along their edges and taste the reality. This must be real. I feel slightly nauseous after several tastes. This is it! This is real! I breathe, methodically and deeply.

"It might be real but you can't hold on to it. Do it enough and you will die," Ben whispers.

"He doesn't have the balls to die," says Brian.

I sit in the sand, butt now wet, and rock to the rhythm of the surf. I have nothing, not a goddamn thing. I taste the blood on my stomach. It is all I have. I can't count on one goddamn thing. And I don't have balls.

I stand, turn toward the sand dunes, and slowly walk back to my van.

## XVIII

(i)

I drive to the state beach in the morning. I feel like a small crab, darting about the hard sand, retreating inside my shell when life gets too complicated. I am running; I am hiding. My spot on the beach is still available, but this time it is not behind Mark's muscle car. An RV from Ohio is parked in Mark's spot. They are early morning risers, drinking their morning coffee at the RV kitchen table. They wave when I walk by. Coffee would taste good right now, but I decide to wait until I get to the convenience store. Walking the beach with Maggie is more important than making coffee. Maggie doesn't run from complications; she doesn't seem like a crab. She doesn't seem like anything other than a young dog, complete in her consistency, especially when a stick is involved. We play stick near the tide, slowly walking toward the pier.

As we walk the beach near the oil driller's RV, I begin to feel followed. Maggie is busy chasing the stick. She doesn't feel followed, but I do. I turn quickly to confront my stalker. Nothing but empty beach. Maybe someone is watching from a camper. Why does the dog not notice? I throw the stick again, but immediately turn to look at the line of vehicles on the beach. They are out of tide's way, but they are close. They are in the perfect location, at the edge of uncertainty. I look back into the gulf, that endless track of water. We are not boats; we cannot explore the uncertainty. We can only sit and partially partake. I turn again to the vehicles. She is walking the beach toward me. She is my stalker. Maggie continues to play stick in the wet sand.

"Where have you two been?" It is the girl that lives with the oil driller. She is walking barefoot and her long legs are bare.

"Were you watching me from the RV?" I still don't know her name.

"I was. How did you know?"

"Just felt it. That's all. What have you been up to?"

"The same old thing. It is winter on the beach and there's nothing to do but get drunk and fuck."

"I've got things to do."

"Would you do them with me? I'm starting to get bored here."

"I'm going to ask you something personal. You don't have to answer," I say.

"I have no secrets. Are you going to ask me why I stay with that old drunk?"

"Yep. You got it. You are young and attractive. I don't think you have to..."

"He is nice and he pampers me. What else could I do here? Live in a tent with the two dirty guys that I came here with? Beg for a minimum wage dish washing job? Why are you so interested?"

"I guess I'm curious about the state of relationships. I can't make sense out of them. I can't seem to figure out why people get together and why they separate," I say.

"You're like me but you're not honest with yourself. I am honest with myself. You are a drifter and you just use people for a while. They use you and you use them. You each give the other something that they need and they provide something in return. It is a momentary arrangement. There is no need for a long term relationship."

"So you think that I'm lying to myself about relationships," I say.

"Definitely. I don't know you but maybe I know you better than you think. You haven't settled down as an adult and I doubt that you will. It doesn't suit you. I'm the same way. That is what makes you so attractive to me. That oil driller is the same way, but he's honest in his drunken state. You are still living in a fantasy. You've got nothing on me but you think you do. You are just lying to yourself."

"How long are you going to stay here?" I ask.

"Until it warms up back north. I'll head north and work the summer. Right now, I don't have to work some shit job. Right now, I'm taken care of, and in return, I take care of him. It is honest and straight forward."

"I've been involved with a woman on this beach but it hasn't been so strait forward. It has become complicated. We had this fling and then separated some. Last night we slept together again. This morning we left without saying much to one another."

"You aren't going to be anything other than yourself. Don't try to pretend to be someone you're not. If she pulls away, let her. She's probably not meant for your type of life. You would go crazy in hers." She is smiling as she speaks to me.

"I'm going crazy now. I'm losing my mind a bit more each day," I confess.

"That's OK, too. There is nothing wrong with a little insanity. You seem like the harmless type. I don't see you being abusive."

(ii)

I say goodbye after genuinely thanking her for her honesty. I have to go to work. I have a job and it requires my body. Not my mind but my body, but it is the only type of job I can handle at the moment. I walk the road to work, past sparrows in the grass. A few rabbits run across the road and I wish Maggie were here to chase them. She is tied to the van for the day. It is a day of solitude for her but at least the atmosphere is entertaining. I wish we could change places.

When I get to work, Mark is there. He is telling Jason that he has been sick. He is hoping to be back to work tomorrow but not today. Jason tells him that he needs to get his life straightened out if he wants to keep his job. Jason tells him that he will be fired if it happens again. There are plenty of people that want to work in this town. He can easily be replaced. Mark promises to be back to work tomorrow. He repeats that he has been sick. There are plenty of people that want to work in this town. It better not happen again. I am waiting for Shane at the boom truck. I can hear everything, though I act busy and uninterested. Of course I am interested. It is the most interesting thing that has happened since I've been working here. Planting palm trees is not that interesting. I guess the first few trees were interesting, but not the countless trees since.

Shane arrives and we climb into the truck. He asks what was happening with Mark. I say it sounds like he still has a job here if he starts working soon, but he still has a job here. He is not fired yet. We should begin driving before our jobs are in question. Jason is not in a good mood. We pull out of the shop before Jason can yell at us, driving into the safety of the island road. I ask Shane to stop at the convenience store. I need some coffee if I am going to be productive today, to feel normal.

I walk into the convenience store and stand at the coffee pots for several minutes. Normal? How is coffee going to make me normal? For some unknown reason I cannot seem to pour myself a cup of coffee. It is not a complicated procedure. The pots seem so plastic and the dark liquid inside looks like a petroleum product. None of it looks real. I am afraid to take a drink, afraid to be poisoned, to turn into a plastic mannequin filled with petroleum product. I walk outside empty handed.

"What the hell? They didn't have any coffee? I can wait," Shane says.

What to say? "The coffee just looked old and burnt," I say.

"Make another pot and juice yourself up."

"Naw, let's just go," I say.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, let's get outa this place."

Shane starts the engine and pulls onto the main island road. "Man. you can be really strange sometimes. You are in that store for several minutes and come out empty handed."

I say nothing in return, taking a chew and staring blankly down the road. There isn't much traffic; there aren't many distractions. I stare, mind empty and enlarging. I can feel Shane's touch. He is driving but I can feel him on my skin. My skin seems several feet wide. I am nervous and I am sensitive, irritably sensitive. I remain quiet until we get to the pile of palm trees by the club house.

"Well, another day of tree planting. You ready?"

Shane says nothing in return. I'm not certain that I am ready. I don't mind Shane's silence because I was asking myself the question. I am the questionable one here. Shane is the four year tree planting expert. I am the drifter, the one of uncertain mind. I get out of the cab and wrap a tree. We yell back and forth, a set of commands used to run the boom since we don't want an accident on the golf course. When the tree is suspended beneath the boom, I climb into the cab.

"That tree is going to fall. It was not done correctly," Ben says.

"Stop the truck." What if Ben is correct? I better double check. Shane looks at me as I tell him I need to check the tree. He looks in his mirror and says that everything seems fine. He asks me if I took some hallucinogens today. I must have done something because I am stranger than usual. I am often strange, but today I am too much to deal with.

"If you're going to be so weird, just keep quiet. Just don't talk to me. Do your job and keep to yourself 'cause I don't want to hear it anymore. OK?" Shane seems pissed.

I don't say another word to him for the entire day. Well, we give commands when operating the boom, but no more casual talk. I start to say something at lunch but Ben tells me not to. Ben says that Shane is thinking about kicking my ass. I look at Shane. He doesn't look like he wants to kick my ass. He looks like he is eating. But Ben could be right. I decide silence is the best policy for the day.

I think about Cathy. She left this morning without saying much. Was she frustrated that we had sex last night? She was packing her tent when I got ready to leave. She was putting it in the trunk of her car because she decided she didn't need it. She said she would meet me tonight on the state beach, and then we could talk. I wonder what she is doing. I miss her even though I just saw her this morning. I saw her but I didn't see her. I didn't know what kind of mood she was in. I didn't know what kind of mood I was in, either. I left and she left. She has a key to my van so maybe she will be there when I return after work. I silently wait for work to end. It is not a completely silent day because Ben is at work with me. He is talking and I am paying attention, but Shane doesn't seem to notice him. Shane must be in one of his depressed moods but I am not talking to Shane. He wanted it that way.

(iii)

When we return to the shop, Cathy's car is in customer parking. She is sitting in the car, listening to music. She was having a town day—warm shower, library, lunch out. I didn't expect to see her here. She gets out of the car and comes to our truck. She looks beautiful when she walks. She introduces herself to Shane, who is looking at me in disbelief. He had decided never to trust a word from my mouth, but here is truth. She is not pretend. He is shy around women. I know he fantasizes about them, but in reality women are something other, something separate. He is not as confident with her as he is with me. He no longer seems tough, rather taking on an innocence of a young boy. I smile as I watch the encounter. He says very little, mostly looking at the ground in front of him. She tries to engage and then retreats to me, asking how the day went. I say it was awkward and confusing. I felt grey and fuzzy like a diseased fish. Shane laughs at this. I tell her that Shane began to lose patience with me today so we didn't talk much. She said she could relate to him and we all laugh and we clock out to go our separate ways, only I am not alone.

"How was your day? You already know about mine. Shane and I said more to one another just now than during an entire day of work."

"That is why I am here. I was feeling a little nervous. Actually, I was feeling extremely nervous." she says.

"What happened?"

"I think the piano man, I think Al, was following me today. I was in the library reading the newspaper and he sat down in the chair next to me. I was reading so I didn't notice at first. He asked, 'Did you have a nice shower at the Y?' I looked at him and was immediately seized by fear. How did he know I was at the Y today? I asked him and he said that he goes there too. This was mid-morning. Doesn't he usually watch daytime soaps during mid-morning?"

"I think so. So what did you do?"

"I told him that you were crazy and that you wouldn't miss next time you shot."

"What did he say?" I ask.

"He said he'd rather not talk about you. He said he'd rather talk about me. I said I wasn't interested in talking to him and that I would call the police if he didn't leave me alone."

"Did you? That's a good idea."

"He said that he had done nothing wrong. He said if anyone should call the police it should be him. He was the one shot at. There were others on the beach that heard the shot. He had talked to them this morning. He said we were the ones who should be concerned about police. People on the beach had been warned about us."

"Well, maybe we shouldn't go back there. Maybe we should stay put. There are more people on this state beach. We should be safe here. Did he leave?" I say.

"Only after I went to the desk and told them he was harassing me. He acted apologetic to the staff and left immediately. I went to the window and watched him drive away. God, I was so scared. I sat and tried to read, but my mind was racing. Is he going to kill us? Are we going to have to kill him? Will we end up in jail?"

"What do you want to do?" I ask.

"I don't know. I thought about going home, going back to Austin. But what about you? If I do that, what about you?"

"Don't worry about me. Take care of yourself. This is supposedly a vacation for you. This is my life, my reality. I'm a drifter. I can survive. I think. Hell, I don't want anything to happen to you."

"What if?"

"Don't what if. You have a conventional, stable existence. It is only becoming complicated with me in the picture. Just remove me and return home. Your life will be normal again. You wouldn't have even met him if it weren't for me. Go home. Pack and go."

"Do you really want me to leave? What if I don't see you again?" she says.

"I don't want to see you go, but it is inevitable. I don't know. I am confused. You've said so yourself. You think I should get some psychiatric help. I think your life will be better without me."

"I don't. I can't believe I'm saying this, but I don't," she says.

We get in her car and drive to the beach. It is a short drive but she has to break for two rabbits before leaving the pavement. I see the van and I see my dog asleep in front of it. I want to build a fortress. The dog is happy to see me. I think she knows nothing about trouble, but she was abandoned for the day. How would I feel? I wouldn't be so happy to see myself. A dog forgets so quickly. We feel loved, truly loved, and I forget about my fortress.

We walk the beach toward the pier. I love to watch the fishermen on the pier. I wonder if they are catching anything. Bernie drives by. He waves and keeps driving. I have nothing for him but conversation and talk doesn't get him drunk. His friend is back on the beach, fishing in the small surf from a lawn chair. He has a cooler of beer next to him that he is quickly depleting. I assume Bernie is on a beer run. I remember my fortress, my grand fortress.

(iv)

I am standing in front of the van when Cathy returns from the chem toilet.

"Who were you talking to, John?" She asks.

"Ben. I was talking to Ben."

"Where is he now?"

I look around the van, walking here and there, finding nothing. "Must have left."

"Where did he go?" she asks.

"I don't know. He just appears and disappears. I can't keep track of him. I really don't know or care where he goes."

"Don't you think this whole thing is a little strange? People don't just appear and disappear. People have independent lives and homes," she insists.

"I don't know. I just don't know," I say as I wander off toward the surf.

## XIX

(i)

"Do you feel very free now?" I ask.

"What?" Cathy turns to face me.

"Do you feel very free now?"

"No, not really," she admits.

"I don't either. I don't like spending the night with a loaded shotgun next to the bed. I think I would prefer to put it away and deal with life in a less violent manner." I am sitting at the edge of the van. The gun is still loaded, still behind me. Brian seems to have left. He was hanging around last night, keeping watch. I don't know if a drunken college kid is a very good watchman, but it felt comforting to know he was there.

"When you pulled the gun on Al, we made our relationship more violent. There is no turning back now. He expects a gun. What if he now has one?" she says.

"So it's my fault?" I ask.

"No. I was the one who first wanted a loaded gun in the van. I was glad you shot at his feet the other night. He left and we were alone again. Maybe it wasn't the best way to deal with the situation, but it worked momentarily. We are in this together. I am as responsible as you are for our relationship with Al. I just wish he would leave."

"Like I said last night, I think you should leave. I think you should return home and leave me here with the beach and the palm trees, with Al and Mark and all the retired couples in RVs. This is my home. You have a home in Austin. You have stability in your life. My life is inherently unstable. I have periods of stability but they are short lived. You should go home."

We sit at the edge of the van, slowly drinking coffee. She made the coffee this morning, so it is not gritty. It is strong and hot, smooth and robust, not my gritty acidic juice. We sit silently, watching the shadows fade and the landscape come into view. I want to tell her that I am growing attached to her company. Love? I don't even know what love is. Does anyone really? Somebody must but it is not me. I don't want to tell her that. I don't want to build a prison for her on this beach. What am I thinking? We are already imprisoned on this beach. Al is the free one.

"How do we free ourselves of this situation?" I ask.

She looks at me, shaking her head. "I don't know."

"Well, it seems like Al is free to do whatever he wants. We are the ones in a growing state of anxiety. I don't know if I can continue like this. I feel like I'm losing my mind a little more each day. It is not all Al's fault; it seems to be everything in general. I just feel more confused, more uncertain of reality and how I perceive it. Do you really think I need to see some shrink?"

"Yes, I do. But it's nothing to be ashamed of. Really John, you are a great person, intelligent and attractive. You are very kind. But you also seem to hallucinate, to be so distant. I've seen a shrink before. It is nothing horrible."

"You did? Really?... Hell, I don't have that kind of money. I can't afford to see a doctor." I say.

"Some places have a sliding pay scale. You could go to a place like that. It is just something to think about."

"What are you going to do today while I'm at work?"

"I think I'll go out for breakfast and do some laundry. Do you need any laundry done?"

"Of course, but you don't need to do it."

"I don't mind. So, laundry and hang out on the beach. I'm going to the other beach to see the hippies in the purple school bus. I want to see them and get more jewelry before I leave here."

"When will you leave?" I wonder aloud.

"I don't know. Not today, but sometime soon. We have things to talk about," she says.

"Like what?"

"Not now. You have to go to work."

I look at her, hoping to have some answers—nothing. She gets up and throws a ball for the dog. I finish my coffee and look through the van for things I need today. First, the shotgun is unloaded and hidden under the seat. Second, I make two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, putting them in a plastic grocery bag. The dog is chasing a ball, endlessly chasing. She is so happy in her routines. I need to try to capture that happiness in mine. Cathy gets my dirty clothes bag and puts it in the trunk. A blanket is spread over the back seat for the dog. Maggie gets to go. "Load up." I shut and lock the van.

(ii)

Mark is at work this morning. He waves me back to the shop and slaps me on the shoulder when I get there. He is smiling, genuinely, but he still has that crazy look in his eyes. He looks unpredictable and possibly dangerous. I love that look about him. He tells me he is back to work for good because Brandy has a place to stay during the day. She is doing fine, hiding with a friend and being unemployed. She had to quit her job to hide from her ex. The cops can't do anything to protect her so she is finding ways to protect herself.

"I'm protecting myself, too." He walks to his work bench and opens a drawer. There is a pistol. I don't know what kind it is but it looks like it would work. He smiles, shaking his head in satisfaction. He is protected and thinks that the gun gives him freedom. I don't say anything. I tell him I need to get to work; I need to leave. We smile at each other, shaking our heads in some kind of unspoken dialogue, then I walk back to the truck. It is running and Shane is waiting for me. He seems impatient this morning. How many times have I waited for him?

"So that is the girl you were talking about?"

"That's her."

"I don't get it. You are such a freak and you're hanging out with her. I never meet anyone like that and I'm not nearly as much of a freak as you are. I don't understand how it happens."

What am I to say? It is partly a compliment, but mostly an insult. What does it say about him? I ride in the truck, sitting silently on a stained, cracking seat. The day seems hopeful. I am too young to be like this old seat, too young to be that depressed. I laugh at myself. What does age have to do with depression?

"What the hell are you laughing at?"

I give him a look that says 'fuck off.' Suddenly I am tired of his shit. He is young yet he reminds me of this old seat. He can drink his cheap beer alone on a couch in his trailer. He can hide behind a pit bull on a chain. I've got a van. I can leave but I don't see him leaving. This is his life and I think it is a shitty one. So what if I am crazy. I am not him.

"The hell with this guy, John. Don't talk to him. Don't even give him the time of day."

Brian is right. I won't talk to him. I will silently dig my holes, dig his grave. I will help him plant palm trees for his head stones. He will have hundreds of head stones, monuments to mediocrity. The hell with him and the hell with this job. I'm not going to sell my life for this mediocrity. I will leave and I will be free. I will go on to do great things in life, things he can't even comprehend. He has that small of a mind. Has he ever exercised it?

We work through the morning without saying anything to one another. We yell commands back and forth, but we don't really communicate. Our commands are short and crisp, like something in the military. I was in ROTC in college for a couple of months. Idiots would bark out commands, thinking that self-assertion equaled intelligence. It didn't even equal authority, though I did sometimes jump at a startling command. The cadets were pretending they were ready for war. Is anyone ever ready for war? Shane is barking out commands like those pathetic upperclassmen in ROTC.

"Were you ever in the military?" I ask.

"What? What the fuck does that have to do with anything? Just shut up and work."

"Hit that son of a bitch with your shovel." Brian is someplace. I hear him but I don't turn to find him.

I pick up the shovel, muscles tightening, teeth clinched. I hold it for a minute while he continues to dig. I stand and hold, breathing deeply, breathing purposefully. He digs, unaware of what I am going to do, unaware of Brian's voice. I grip the shovel tighter, bringing it back to swing. It is as if someone else is doing this for me. It can't be me. What is happening to me? I can't. I drop the shovel and walk away. I walk to the cab of the truck and get my sandwiches. I take a cold drink of water from the jug. I put in a chew.

"Where the hell are you going?" Shane demands.

I walk. I can't stand to look at him. The fairway seems so green and promising in the sunlight. My feet feel cushioned as I walk across the grass, as I walk away from Shane, as I walk away from part of myself. What have I become? What have I become?

"Get the fuck back here! I can't do this alone, you son of a bitch. Get the fuck back here!" He is screaming, holding his shovel.

The farther I walk, the fainter his voice becomes. It is fading from my mind, fading from existence. I walk the golf course to the main road beyond. As soon as I get to the road, I stick out my thumb for a ride—instant ride. I am riding to the beach. Yes, that is where I am going. I am going to the state beach. Yes, I am camped there but not for much longer. No, I'm not certain where I am going. I am simply going. I am simply running from myself, from what I have become. I silently think I have lost my mind completely. I can't believe I am thinking of killing people. Brian is a bastard. He will get me in trouble, but he will continue living in his rich, spoiled existence.

"Who's the bastard? I'm saving your life. Without me, you would fall apart." Brian says.

I quickly look about the car. There is no one but the driver. I check the back seat again, but nothing.

"Do you need something?" the driver asks.

"He needs a new life," says Ben.

"I do not!" I yell.

"You don't need anything? You're acting a little strange. I can drop you off right here," the driver says.

"No, please, to the state beach. I just heard something is all," I say.

"I didn't hear anything," the driver says.

"You didn't hear anything?" I ask.

"No, nothing."

"It's just that sometimes, when John has nothing, there are things that come along with him. They haunt him when he's not expecting them. All John wants to do is to relax. It's other people's trips getting into his head and manipulating time. Time is being and multiple beings can distort time, confusing the process of being."

"Who is this John?" asks the driver.

"This John is me but it is different than that John, who is other. It's like your car, getting large and then small, encompassing all these dimensions and, thereby, becoming multiple."

"What kind of fuck'n drugs are you on, man?" The driver is raising his voice.

I decide to be quiet. I look at him and wonder if he is one of them. Who are them? They are everywhere. They are Shane. They are the boss. They are Al. This is another Shane I am riding with, another Shane to escape.

"This is good enough," I say as we near the state beach. "Thanks for the ride, Shane."

"I'm not Shane. Go sober up," the driver says.

(iii)

As I walk toward the beach I hear music. It is a soft flute coming from the beach. I walk faster, searching, but it fades and is gone. Nothing, my mind is empty. I stop and stand, listening amidst the dunes. Where is that flute? Please come back and guide me to eternity. No eternity? Then please guide me to a peace of mind. I walk down the road. The sand dunes seem large enough to be hiding the flute. I get off the road and search, walking in circles, sometimes at dune's crest and others in the troughs. Eventually I tire of walking circles and return to the road.

There it is again! Maybe it is the road. I put my ear to the road but lose the song. Nothing, not even the road can lead me to peace of mind. I walk faster this time, faster, faster, running at times toward the beach. I have to find that flute to save me from myself.

A car approaches. Maybe it is him; maybe he is coming to haunt me. I run into the sand dunes and hide. A truck passes slowly, and with its passing, the music is lost. The flute can no longer be heard. I run down the road toward the beach. The flute must be on the beach. I run until the pavement ends and I find myself in the soft sand. The soft sand traps me, slowing me to a walk. I walk, but I walk toward nothing. The flute is gone, the campers are gone, the tuck is gone. There is nothing but the surf.

I see my van, a lone van, in the distance, looking like me. It looks lost on this beach and I want to be with it.

"Fuck that flute!" I yell to a brown gull on the brown sand.

"It's the nerves. It must be the nerves making all this shit seem so invasive of my personal space. Everything feels so raw and bordered with barbed wire. I seem to be cutting myself on life in its most basal form. Do you understand that?" I have stopped to talk to another gull, this one grey and white.

The gull has a beautiful manner of accepting and rejecting me at the same moment. He walks slowly in front of me, stopping on occasion to look at me squarely, as a Zen master might do. I follow him, waiting for life's great explanation. The gull knows it is not there. He simply walks the beach toward my van and I follow him like a dutiful disciple.

## XX

Dear Alison,

I can't say that I know what I am doing. I am on a Texas beach and have managed to hook up with a delusional guy who lives in a van. His name is John Jones, a fascinating but crazy drifter. I think he is truly harmless. He is wasting his life planting palm trees here so I am thinking about asking him to settle down with me in Austin. I am thinking about giving him a real home on the condition that he gets psychiatric help. He's smart. Maybe he could go back to school.

There is another guy that is stalking us, and he is crazy too, but he is not harmless. I sleep in John's van with a loaded shotgun next to my head. This is a little different than my academic existence in Austin. In some ways I want to run away from here, but in others I want to stay here and continue experiencing the insanity. It makes me feel alive. Am I losing my mind, my sense of stability and purpose?

Love from your confused sister,

Cathy

"Your pancakes. Would you like anything else?"

"More coffee, please."

I eat my breakfast in silence. There is background noise but it helps me to concentrate on my breakfast. I think the background noise is contributing to my silence. It is something for me to tune out, and therefore, to help me concentrate on food and coffee. That's not entirely true. It also helps me to relax and think more clearly. What should I do with John Jones? Hell, I am already doing his laundry. Maybe I have already made up my mind. Already, already, already. What am I thinking? I can't be serious about this. My friends will think I have lost my mind.

I eat in a manic sort of way, not savoring. I am tasting, though. It isn't really good enough to savor. Being waited on is a relief. Oh, the restaurants back home. A good meal will be much deserved. I can pamper myself at my favorite places. What kind of vacation is this that I need to feel pampered after returning home?

I leave the restaurant feeling full but disappointed. The meal wasn't bad, it was simply mediocre. As I drive to the laundromat, I try to envision what I want to happen. What do I want to happen? I have to know what I want before I can adequately envision it. I don't even know what to do about John. Yes, I do, I will definitely invite him to live with me in Austin. Will he want to? If he stays, he has to see a mental health professional. I must be firm about that. I cannot simply allow him to hang out in my house, drifting from one shit job to another, drinking beer and wandering about the bars of Austin. I have to be firm about that. What am I thinking?

I pull into the laundromat and haul our bags of clothing inside. I hate dirty laundromats and this one is dirty. The entire atmosphere has a film from cigarette smoke. I feel like I am trying to clean a spoon in an ashtray. I want a sink filled with clean dishwater, not some ash film. I fill a machine with my clothes and add the detergent. I don't want to mix our clothes. I am afraid of his bag. What was I thinking when I offered to do his dirty laundry? He is filthy even when clean, much less his work clothes. I open the machine door and simply pour his clothing into the machine. I don't touch it. Is that all? I know he doesn't change his clothes often, but I expected more than this. I put my nose into the machine and smell. God, why did I do that? I am an intelligent human being. Why did I do such a dumb thing? I dump in extra detergent and begin the wash.

There is a newspaper on a table. No one is claiming it so I do. I try to read the front page but my attention is that of a five year old. Where is my mind today? I try to read again, but quickly drift into a hundred thoughts about my future. It doesn't include this beach, but does it include a beach character? What happens if I bring this guy home and he leaves in a couple of months? What happens if he never seeks any psychiatric help and my life diverts into a mental health crisis center? Can I focus enough at work if my home life is filled with chaos? Will I be ruining my future? Oh, damn there are so many questions left unanswered. I turn to the TV in the corner.

"Are you finished with the paper?"

"Sure. I can't seem to read it. Help yourself."

I watch daytime soaps. A month ago I would have laughed at the thought of watching one of these programs. I don't even have a television for the good documentaries or movies. Now I am fixated on the characters. Hell, my life could be on this soap—the quiet academic who goes on a wild fling with characters of questionable sanity. What happened to our darling scholar? Suddenly I love the soap. I don't know which one it is. Does it matter? What matters is that I presently love it. I may hate it tomorrow but tomorrow is too hard to think about.

Driving back to the beach I find some relaxing music on the radio. I am driving and I am singing to the music. I forget about my questions and drive with certainty. Suddenly there is nothing but a road and some music. I am in love and I am singing as a lover. What am I talking about? I stop singing and think about my last thought. Love? Do I even know what that is? Can anyone call a few weeks love? Sounds like lust and infatuation to me. God, what was I thinking? Love? I want to sing some more, but there is a new song on the radio and I don't know the lyrics. I don't even like this song.

I am approaching the National Seashore. I am approaching Al. I will be safe with the bus people, the hippie jewelers with an idyllic lifestyle. I drive into the sand with a sudden sense of dread and nervousness. Wait. Where is he? He should be here, shouldn't he? I stop the car and look at the empty beach, the dunes behind the soft sand. Maybe I'm not there yet. I drive farther. No, I remember that particular RV and it is past Al's camp. I stop and look. I feel as though I am standing in a warm shower, suddenly relaxed and comforted. I begin to cry, first small tears and then sobbing streams. I didn't realize how much he affected me. A minute ago was survival mode, but now I have survived. I cry, my entire being drooping into the seat. Out of the car, out of the car and running toward the surf. I throw off my sandals and run into the water, waves hitting my legs, sand massaging my toes. I am free and I am alive. Who gives a shit about the future? There is a future to give a shit about. Can I ask for more?

With tears I look into the emptiness of the gulf, then the emptiness of the sky. What is that? I jump, grabbing a long web of white silk floating effortlessly through the sky. It is the parachute of a young spider. It is a black speck on a white ship, sailing for place to call home. Where did you come from? How the hell did you get here? There is only gulf out there, water and sky and nothing more. Where? How? I pause, standing, mind empty in the surf. It doesn't matter. You remind me of someone. I walk to the sand, then beyond to the dunes. I drop the white silky mass and small black spider on some grass. I decide to drive to John's van and wait for him.

## XXI

She has such a soft and seductive voice, a voice that speaks in whispers. I was in love with her voice the first time I heard it. I can remember that time so clearly, like it was this morning. But it was not this morning, it was months ago. She abandoned me and I silently cried to hear her again. That was in Wyoming, in a mountain cabin surrounded by spruce and fir. Now, on this Texas beach, she has returned, comforting me in my confusion.

What have I become? I feel so utterly confused, so disconnected and chaotic. Is there any such thing as reality, or is it all an illusion?

"Your confusion is real. You should come with me, come with me because there is no confusion where I am. It is peaceful and soft. Find your gun, John," she says.

I stand in my van. I have been sitting on the floor between the front seats and the back bed. I stand and turn around so that I can get the gun from under the bed. I pull it out slowly.

"That's it, John. Take it out of the case," she whispers.

I unzip the case and pull the gun out. I hold the gun and look at it, remembering my grandfather who gave it to me. I remember shooting clay pigeons with it when I was young. He was so patient with me, encouraging me whenever I hit one. He was so patient with me. I can almost feel his presence in my memory. I smile as I return to the floor, now holding a gun.

"Where are your shells, John?" she whispers.

I don't remember. I have to think for a bit before I remember where I stashed them. I pull out the shells and put one into the gun. It is a semi-automatic so it makes a sharp metal clang when I load the shell. I feel awake after the sound. I feel ready to hunt.

I remember clearly the last time I did this. She was talking to me; she was comforting me. I remember sitting in the Wyoming cabin with the curtains closed. There was one shaft of light on the brown wall. Other than that one light, it was completely dark, forced darkness. I remember her voice and how seductive it was. It is still seductive, but I know it better now than I did then. That was the first time and her voice surprised me, holding my hand while I loaded the gun. I remember tasting the metal of the barrel. How? The barrel was against my nose but I could taste the metal as though it were in my mouth. Oh, the conversation in my head had stopped and the only thing left was her voice. I held the gun to my head with one hand, letting the other slowly slide to the trigger. She told me I was doing the right thing. I would be leaving the confusion and entering true peace of mind. I held that gun for several minutes. I sat in that dark room and was ready to pull the trigger when my family emerged. I saw them crying. I saw them confused and abandoned. I lowered the gun and took the shell out of the chamber, sitting in that dark room for over an hour. Life seemed peaceful again.

I sit in the van and once again her voice holds my hand while I load the gun. The waves expand, contract, expand, contract with a slight pause of completeness between movements. The movement resumes. What have I become? I have to stop this. She tells me I can. I hold the barrel with one hand and slide my other toward the trigger. This time I put the barrel into my mouth. I can taste the metal, the oil, the powder. It fills my mouth, then my head, and then my entire body. Everything seems so clear and simple now. Everything feels so complete. There are no pictures of my family. There is no one but this seductive voice guiding me to a clearer future, one where I am protected from myself. I touch the trigger.

Pelicans glide two feet above green water.

## XXII

I hear a bark at the van. At first it is faint, so distant and other worldly. Maggie? It must be Maggie. I pull my finger away from the trigger. I remove the barrel from my mouth and place it on my shoulder. How could I forget about Maggie? Who would take care of her? The door opens.

"Oh my god, what the hell are you doing, John?" It is Cathy.

I look at her blankly. I have no ability for expression. She seems so distant.

"Put down the... put down the... put down the gun. Give it to me, please," she pleads.

The dog jumps in my lap and licks my face. I smile, at first it is an apprehensive smile, but I cannot stop it from becoming more complete. How could I forget about Maggie?

"I'm going to keep this in my car. OK? I'm going to keep this." She unloads the chamber and walks to her car. She opens the trunk and retires my gun. That is my gun that is loaded with memories of my youth. That is my gun and it is now no longer mine. I have been declared too unstable to own a part of myself.

"Get in the car, please. Please, John." She holds my hand. Her voice is not seductive. Her voice does seem compassionate. I can trust her. I say nothing.

We drive off the beach, down the main road to the convenience store and park. I am doing nothing but sitting, staring. I feel exhausted. I feel empty and distant as though in a dream. It feels so comforting to be here. She is looking through a phone book. She leaves and returns with change. She opens the book again, stopping on a page and running her finger down. Up and down, up and down. She makes a call. She talks desperately. I cannot hear her voice but I can tell she is desperate by her body. She hangs up the phone and pauses for a moment. I see her breath deeply. She picks up the phone again.

"Hello, I was told you have a sliding scale."

"Yes, based on income."

"I have a friend. He is delusional. I think he hears things. Anyway, he has become suicidal. He lives on the beach in a van and he has no money to speak of. He has no place to go. He has nothing, really. I just found him with a loaded gun. He didn't kill himself but he was going to. Maybe he wouldn't. I don't know. I found him with a loaded gun. He needs help."

"I'm sorry, can you hold?"

"Hold?" There is no one on the line. "How can they put me on hold at a time like this?" She yells this so that I can hear her.

"Hello."

"Please don't put me on hold again. This is important. He might try this again."

"Yes, well. We can see him next week on Thursday."

"Next week! This is a crisis and all you can say is next week! You've got to be fucking kidding me. Next week! Forget it!"

She slams the phone. Wow, she's pissed. She is sitting next to me. She has a desperate look on her face. I feel like a little child that has done something bad.

"John. I've got an idea. Will you do this?"

"I don't know. What's the idea?"

"I want to drive to Austin. I want to go home and I want you to go with me."

"I don't feel like driving in traffic. I don't think I could handle it right now."

"No, you wouldn't have to drive. We could leave your van here for a night and I could drive back with a friend to pick it up tomorrow."

"Leave my van here?"

"I don't want you to drive. It would only be one night."

"I guess I could try driving," I say.

"No. I'm afraid you will get lost from me and disappear. I want you to come home with me and find some help in Austin."

"I have a job."

"It is a shitty job, John. You can find another one of those. Besides, you must have walked off the job today. Do you think they will take you back? Don't worry about it. You can have them send your pay to my house in Austin. Just stay with me until you get help. You can do anything you want after you get help. Please. Come with me."

## About the Author

Kirk VanDyke is a native of Ft. Worth, TX, currently living in Laramie, WY. He studied economics at Tulane University and the University of London, biology and entomology (PhD) at the University of Wyoming. Aside from this, he lived for years in a seemingly uneconomic manner as a transient, working seasonal and often marginal jobs, while living in a van or a tent in various public lands of the Western US. _Figures on a Beach_ is his first published novel, not to be confused with a memoir, and is loosely based on his transient experiences.
