Changing Tides
They were just waiting to be destroyed. So you decide to guard them against your rambunctious younger cousins and unsteady grandparents. A responsibility that doesn't belong to you, that isn't foisted upon you, but that someone must hold nonetheless.
You move your ironically themed penguin beach chair strategically next to the creation. As you push your pedicured (French) toes into the sand, adjust the two-piece your mom finally let you wear—under a cover-up—and try to focus on the glossy magazine featuring perfect celebrities, you can’t stop looking up at them. Why would their creator take such care in making them just to leave them, for hours now, to fend for themselves against the world? So proud, so perfect, yet so exposed to peril.
The abandoned sand towers stretch to the sky, with glorious, decorative bricks and windows stenciled into their sides. This was your first clue that the anonymous artist clearly had some experience pulling masterpieces out of the shore. The rest of the structure is no less a work of art. The towers share an intricate drawbridge and lead a ringed fortress. The circle of protection guards a beautiful castle. Thatched roofs on tiny houses dot the flat floor around the palace.
You have heard about sand castle competitions, with pictures of beaming artists kneeling next to their accomplishments. But this accomplishment has been here since you came out this morning. Alone. Belonging to no one, vulnerable to all.
Threats seem to abound. Sticky-faced children, fresh from a treat at the boardwalk ice cream parlor, prance and dance around the perfectly executed sand in awe as their parents simply say things like, “Now be careful,” or “Don’t touch.” They compliment you as though you had made it. You thank them, because you don’t think the irresponsible creator deserves any credit.
When children become distracted by seashells, seagulls pounce, letting their big wings spread with no thought to the castle, until you yell them away. And then there is the old man. You see him stumble a bit, awkwardly trying to carry too many beach bags, flip flops, umbrellas, and chairs. Right as he is three feet away, someone calls his name. As he turns in one direction, the umbrella swings the other way, toward the small flag on the top of the south tour. “Grampa!” you yell urgently, just in time, making him swing in reverse, thereby saving the flag. “Oh, sorry love, didn't see that there,” he smiles. You breathe an exasperated “It’s ok,” and then take a long sip of Diet Coke before pretending to go back to your magazine.
But you can’t focus. You stare at the water, considering your rescues, and realize it is all pointless. Even if you save the castle from the next sticky kid or nosy seagull, the building’s fate is set, set in stone. The water seeps toward you. There are only hours till the tide will swallow it.
You set down your glossy, get up from your ridiculous penguin chair, and confront the two towers. First, oh so carefully, you place your left foot into the immaculate drawbridge, allowing the perfect sand to fumble and tickle your sole. With the drawbridge down, you stomp over the rest of the castle, getting moist sand all over your legs, squishing the tiny houses, the imaginary people, the magnificent palace. Satisfied after complete destruction, you walk to the ocean, angrily aware of the equally impermanent footprints you mark on the earth. Entering the water, the ocean glides across the tops of your feet, then your ankles and shins, until you are up to your knees. The deeper you go, the better it feels. You stop, letting the waves crash across your thighs, drenching your cover-up, as the water flushes around you. You feel clean. Almost…perfect?
“Hey, why did you do that?” you hear your cousin say behind you. You turn to see his face, a tinge angry, but mostly confused.
“I…” you hear your voice stammer. “I don’t know.” You stare at him for a moment, then back to the ruins—fleshy sand in lumps next to your chair—and back at him. “Want to help me make another?”
You know whatever you make will be far less superior, but his face brightens anyway. “Cool, I’ll go get some tools!” He spins on the ball of his right foot and dashes toward a basket of shovels, molds, and buckets, leaving sprays of glorious water in his wake. But then he stops, twists back around, and, in as serious a tone an 8-year-old can own, says, “But when we’re done, we both get to mash it. Okay?”
You feel fire in your chest at his complete lack of understanding of what it means to make a sand castle, but then a crisp wave hits you squarely, washing forward from you to the shore. You feel clean. Free.
And you say, “Deal.”
Straight Up With a Twist
I am sure you understand the importance of a familiar atmosphere and a set routine. I, for one, would be lost without my Sunday trips to the shooting range and weekly knot-tying class. There are only so many knots that can resist the average squirmy citizen, you know.
But enough about me. Our main character, Edward Smith, has his own routine, one that involves a nightly drink at Jack’s Saloon. “Saloon” is a bit misleading as Jack’s is actually a fine establishment nestled among the capricious streets of downtown Washington, DC.
In any matter, Edward journeys to the bar at six o’clock every evening. And every evening he has a Beefeater martini, extra dry, straight up, with a twist, rocks on the side. He cannot remember the last time he needed to state his order. The bartender knows.
Edward drinks to ease his mad mind. He drinks to forget about the congressmen and the bills and the interns. Oh those interns. But mostly he drinks to forget about that night, last October. He drinks to forget about the splash and that murky plea for help.
He doesn’t talk while he is at Jack’s Saloon. He keeps his mouth occupied with the gin. When he leaves, he is filled with the nutrition he needs to make his way home. To fall asleep. To face it all again tomorrow.
It is disturbing when one’s routine is broken. I remember a dreary afternoon when my knot-tying class was cancelled. I was so bored I could have hung myself.
But back to Edward. Last week, after he climbed atop his regular stool, the bartender placed a white Russian in front of him. It seemed almost luminous, directly under the light.
“What is this?” Edward asked. His voice stirred the other laconic customers curled around the bar.
“Your regular, sir,” the bartender said, eyebrow cocked as he wiped the counter. Edward knew not to press further.
He sipped it. He tried to enjoy the different taste. But there was something metallic about it. And there was a clinking sound that simply could not have been generated by an ice cube.
As the drink drained, he came to understand. An idle bullet resided at the bottom of the glass.
Now Edward may not be what most would call a good man. But he would be called a good employee—-especially in our nation’s capital. He has never shied away from nefarious assignments. Namely, he helped dispose of a body using a boat. And by helping dispose of a body, I mean that Edward shot a live man on a boat and pushed the still murmuring body into the water.
And the formerly live man was not just any live (now dead) man. He had connections, connections of the Russian mafia persuasion.
So you can begin to comprehend why a bullet in a white Russian might be a tad startling to Edward. He persevered nonetheless. Hopeful that things would return to normal, he spent a week at Jack’s drowning his fears in cream and vodka. But staring at the clicking of a fresh bullet at the bottom of a glass can take a toll on a man. The white Russians--well, white Russians with a twist, but I kid--were poor substitutes for his usual martini. When you mess with a man’s routine, you mess with his fragile mind.
Tonight, Edward resists the urge to have his feet move down that familiar sidewalk. He does not pass the familiar street sign that is just a smidge crooked and the familiar homeless man who proclaims wisdom with black markers and cardboard—-yes, the world will eventually reach its demise. (When it does, I hope a brandy is nearby.)
Instead, Edward enters the unfamiliar liquor store. He escorts the Beef-eater gin home before he rummages for those olives he knows are in the back of his refrigerator. He wipes clean the one martini glass he owns along with the martini maker, a gift.
But what is this? When he pours the liquid it does not flow with the delicious clarity he expects. It is white. And there is a clink, a now familiar clink.
Why yes, a bullet has traveled to the center of the drink. It settles. It rests.
His mouth hangs open and his heart beats faster. Until a thought scratches inside his cranium.
This is good news.
He is not a hunted man. He is simply an insane one.
He smiles as he toasts to himself and downs the drink. The bullet is shockingly easy to swallow.
They were just waiting to be destroyed. So you decide to guard them against your rambunctious younger cousins and unsteady grandparents. A responsibility that doesn't belong to you, that isn't foisted upon you, but that someone must hold nonetheless.
You move your ironically themed penguin beach chair strategically next to the creation. As you push your pedicured (French) toes into the sand, adjust the two-piece your mom finally let you wear—under a cover-up—and try to focus on the glossy magazine featuring perfect celebrities, you can’t stop looking up at them. Why would their creator take such care in making them just to leave them, for hours now, to fend for themselves against the world? So proud, so perfect, yet so exposed to peril.
The abandoned sand towers stretch to the sky, with glorious, decorative bricks and windows stenciled into their sides. This was your first clue that the anonymous artist clearly had some experience pulling masterpieces out of the shore. The rest of the structure is no less a work of art. The towers share an intricate drawbridge and lead a ringed fortress. The circle of protection guards a beautiful castle. Thatched roofs on tiny houses dot the flat floor around the palace.
You have heard about sand castle competitions, with pictures of beaming artists kneeling next to their accomplishments. But this accomplishment has been here since you came out this morning. Alone. Belonging to no one, vulnerable to all.
Threats seem to abound. Sticky-faced children, fresh from a treat at the boardwalk ice cream parlor, prance and dance around the perfectly executed sand in awe as their parents simply say things like, “Now be careful,” or “Don’t touch.” They compliment you as though you had made it. You thank them, because you don’t think the irresponsible creator deserves any credit.
When children become distracted by seashells, seagulls pounce, letting their big wings spread with no thought to the castle, until you yell them away. And then there is the old man. You see him stumble a bit, awkwardly trying to carry too many beach bags, flip flops, umbrellas, and chairs. Right as he is three feet away, someone calls his name. As he turns in one direction, the umbrella swings the other way, toward the small flag on the top of the south tour. “Grampa!” you yell urgently, just in time, making him swing in reverse, thereby saving the flag. “Oh, sorry love, didn't see that there,” he smiles. You breathe an exasperated “It’s ok,” and then take a long sip of Diet Coke before pretending to go back to your magazine.
But you can’t focus. You stare at the water, considering your rescues, and realize it is all pointless. Even if you save the castle from the next sticky kid or nosy seagull, the building’s fate is set, set in stone. The water seeps toward you. There are only hours till the tide will swallow it.
You set down your glossy, get up from your ridiculous penguin chair, and confront the two towers. First, oh so carefully, you place your left foot into the immaculate drawbridge, allowing the perfect sand to fumble and tickle your sole. With the drawbridge down, you stomp over the rest of the castle, getting moist sand all over your legs, squishing the tiny houses, the imaginary people, the magnificent palace. Satisfied after complete destruction, you walk to the ocean, angrily aware of the equally impermanent footprints you mark on the earth. Entering the water, the ocean glides across the tops of your feet, then your ankles and shins, until you are up to your knees. The deeper you go, the better it feels. You stop, letting the waves crash across your thighs, drenching your cover-up, as the water flushes around you. You feel clean. Almost…perfect?
“Hey, why did you do that?” you hear your cousin say behind you. You turn to see his face, a tinge angry, but mostly confused.
“I…” you hear your voice stammer. “I don’t know.” You stare at him for a moment, then back to the ruins—fleshy sand in lumps next to your chair—and back at him. “Want to help me make another?”
You know whatever you make will be far less superior, but his face brightens anyway. “Cool, I’ll go get some tools!” He spins on the ball of his right foot and dashes toward a basket of shovels, molds, and buckets, leaving sprays of glorious water in his wake. But then he stops, twists back around, and, in as serious a tone an 8-year-old can own, says, “But when we’re done, we both get to mash it. Okay?”
You feel fire in your chest at his complete lack of understanding of what it means to make a sand castle, but then a crisp wave hits you squarely, washing forward from you to the shore. You feel clean. Free.
And you say, “Deal.”
Straight Up With a Twist
I am sure you understand the importance of a familiar atmosphere and a set routine. I, for one, would be lost without my Sunday trips to the shooting range and weekly knot-tying class. There are only so many knots that can resist the average squirmy citizen, you know.
But enough about me. Our main character, Edward Smith, has his own routine, one that involves a nightly drink at Jack’s Saloon. “Saloon” is a bit misleading as Jack’s is actually a fine establishment nestled among the capricious streets of downtown Washington, DC.
In any matter, Edward journeys to the bar at six o’clock every evening. And every evening he has a Beefeater martini, extra dry, straight up, with a twist, rocks on the side. He cannot remember the last time he needed to state his order. The bartender knows.
Edward drinks to ease his mad mind. He drinks to forget about the congressmen and the bills and the interns. Oh those interns. But mostly he drinks to forget about that night, last October. He drinks to forget about the splash and that murky plea for help.
He doesn’t talk while he is at Jack’s Saloon. He keeps his mouth occupied with the gin. When he leaves, he is filled with the nutrition he needs to make his way home. To fall asleep. To face it all again tomorrow.
It is disturbing when one’s routine is broken. I remember a dreary afternoon when my knot-tying class was cancelled. I was so bored I could have hung myself.
But back to Edward. Last week, after he climbed atop his regular stool, the bartender placed a white Russian in front of him. It seemed almost luminous, directly under the light.
“What is this?” Edward asked. His voice stirred the other laconic customers curled around the bar.
“Your regular, sir,” the bartender said, eyebrow cocked as he wiped the counter. Edward knew not to press further.
He sipped it. He tried to enjoy the different taste. But there was something metallic about it. And there was a clinking sound that simply could not have been generated by an ice cube.
As the drink drained, he came to understand. An idle bullet resided at the bottom of the glass.
Now Edward may not be what most would call a good man. But he would be called a good employee—-especially in our nation’s capital. He has never shied away from nefarious assignments. Namely, he helped dispose of a body using a boat. And by helping dispose of a body, I mean that Edward shot a live man on a boat and pushed the still murmuring body into the water.
And the formerly live man was not just any live (now dead) man. He had connections, connections of the Russian mafia persuasion.
So you can begin to comprehend why a bullet in a white Russian might be a tad startling to Edward. He persevered nonetheless. Hopeful that things would return to normal, he spent a week at Jack’s drowning his fears in cream and vodka. But staring at the clicking of a fresh bullet at the bottom of a glass can take a toll on a man. The white Russians--well, white Russians with a twist, but I kid--were poor substitutes for his usual martini. When you mess with a man’s routine, you mess with his fragile mind.
Tonight, Edward resists the urge to have his feet move down that familiar sidewalk. He does not pass the familiar street sign that is just a smidge crooked and the familiar homeless man who proclaims wisdom with black markers and cardboard—-yes, the world will eventually reach its demise. (When it does, I hope a brandy is nearby.)
Instead, Edward enters the unfamiliar liquor store. He escorts the Beef-eater gin home before he rummages for those olives he knows are in the back of his refrigerator. He wipes clean the one martini glass he owns along with the martini maker, a gift.
But what is this? When he pours the liquid it does not flow with the delicious clarity he expects. It is white. And there is a clink, a now familiar clink.
Why yes, a bullet has traveled to the center of the drink. It settles. It rests.
His mouth hangs open and his heart beats faster. Until a thought scratches inside his cranium.
This is good news.
He is not a hunted man. He is simply an insane one.
He smiles as he toasts to himself and downs the drink. The bullet is shockingly easy to swallow.
