The orchestra of Summer insects traveled softly up and over the dunes before blending with the crashing of the ocean waves upon the dark sands. Cold sea foam wayed and pulsed with the shimmering full moon, while a pair of feet stood numb and blue on the shoreline, marradded by the apathetic water. Hastily hunched-up pant legs revealed thin, white shins, flecked with sand. Wet shoes dangled uselessly from a large hand, while the other held a starchy, moist overcoat.
What remained dry was a plain white button-up shirt, untucked and draped over brown slacks. A thin pinstripe tie sat neatly in place, firm and presentable, almost mockingly composed compared to its fabric brethren. The face of Edgar Fisch sat atop that trim and proper collar. A thin beard and thick unibrow complemented the square, Polish features of Edgar’s skull. A head devoid of its crown of hair, only sparse wisps of stubborn roots sprouting in the center of his scalp.
Pale blue irises, surrounded by sleep-deprived red veins, stared into the ebbing seascape ahead. The wind picked up its torrent, carrying sparse clouds of salty foam and sand in small tornadoes, all while the waves intensified in preparation for the approaching storm. Edgar gazed at the distant bout of dark clouds, the veiled flashes of lightning, and listened to the faint rumble of thunder.
Not a thought entered his mind, not a one. The only sign of life within those eyes was the recurring shivers that caused him to blink. A flash across the sky broke his trance. The distant blast of thunder followed. Inhaling deeply, he flung his coat over his shoulder before digging into his back pant pocket. The wind lashed a damp letter as he held it up to his eyes, illuminated only by the far-off hotel patio behind the petite dunes of the beach.
With blurry vision, he read:
“Hello, good ol’ Ed,
Hope this new year finds you well. Haven’t heard from ya in a couple of months. I know door-to-door work is gruesome, but I’m sure you’re making a name for yourself. We always talked about making enough money to buy a whole neighborhood for us, our friends, and family. I’m hoping you’re closer on your end than I am. Car dealerships are not as glamorous a source of income as I thought.
My mom says hi too, of course, she always liked you the most out of my childhood pals, haha. We’re doing good. She lives with me now, doc says she has early signs of dementia, which, for all I know, is hereditary, so I suppose I should start making a proper phone book and catalog of people I know.
Miami is expensive, as I’m sure you know, but I’m keeping us afloat. Ran into your little brother last week, seems to be well. Same story as the rest of us, I suppose—big dreams, big ambitions, hard time executing, haha.
He’s crashing here with Ma and me. I’m hoping to find him a position; car dealerships always need salesmen. Who’d a guessed it’s a rough, soulless job? I thought I’d be the biggest asshole in the dealership, but little did I know it’s a god damn compitetion to be one here.
Enough complaining, though. How have you been? Hope this one reaches ya, would love a chance to catch up, last thing I heard was you were planning on going up north along the coast. To riches and glory, fingers crossed. Always a place for ya here in Miami.
My apartment is small but lively, and right in the city, so you’ll be in for a good time. Especially if you still like coke (if the feds see this letter in the post office, I am referring to Coca-Cola).
Anyways, my hand is cramping. In short, I miss ya man. Maybe when you come down, we can go on a bike ride like we always used to. Those were always therapeutic. Probably even more so now. Keep winning, slugger. Miss ya, love ya, look forward to seeing ya again.
Happy 1992,
Your bud and pal,
Gene Ollahan.”
Edgar felt the postcard he had never sent sitting in his breast pocket, resting like an ingot of lead on his chest. From memory, he recalled the one line he had jotted down before scribbling it into oblivion: Hope that new year found you well, cause I think it lost me.
His wallet seemed like negative space in his pocket. The hundred-fifty to his name was a fine mist of black matter rather than paper folded neatly in its leather coffin. With a sigh, he pocketed the letter and put his coat on, the wind now carrying cold Atlantic air rapidly over the beach. Edgar’s pale eyes reflected, like somber pools, the chaotic bursts of encroaching lighting. Running his free hand over his bare scalp, he tossed his damp shoes, still stuffed with his socks, to the safety of dry sands behind him.
His will set, he glanced over his shoulder to the shoddy lights of the cheap hotel cupping over the dunes yards away from shore. A flickering sign stared back, its neon palm tree capping the chain’s glowing, hot pink name: Discount Seaside Luxury Suites! The thought of spending another twenty of his dwindling income on the moldy, bug-infested room drove his gaze back to the enraged ocean.
Edgar found himself shin-deep in the waves, and stepping deeper into them still. He stared into the dark waters, embracing their siren call and indulging in the numbing Arctic chill, like opium. A gust of wind stung his eyes before snatching in its ethereal grip the postcard anchored in his breast pocket. It fluttered and danced in the air as Ed feebly lept for it, only to watch it soar out of reach into the abyss ahead.
Lighting illuminated the cheap gift shop card just in time for Edgar to witness it plummet into the torrent. In his mind’s eye, he imagined it sank like a barrel of chemical waste, toxifying the waters as it dove. Yet, the immense burden had been swept away from him. Placing a hand over his chest, he chanced a deep, greedy inhale of the salt-tainted air. Lungs, free from restraint and pressure, gulped in the intoxicating breeze. With a burning throat, he softly exhaled. All the radioactive sludge came out with it, all its poisonous elements purified by the sea air.
He glanced down at his blue shins and soaked pants, while waves splashed under his waistline. Daring a second breath, he took a deep sigh. Nothing remained to be expunged. The siren of the sea went silent. Ed found himself not only standing in shallow water but also able to turn back, free from the enchantment of the ocean’s lure, its opioidic prison.
The dry sands of the beach warmed his frozen feet back to life as he sat atop the nearest dune. Grumbling thunder grew more distant as the storm retreated down the horizon, the winds assailing them to some other shore. Edgar was shocked to find tears trickling down his face before indulging in the final rite of purification.
Allowing the river to run dry, he then turned to his wallet, hoping to find it unmolested by the waters. The accumulation of his worth stared up at him as he counted and recounted. Confirming his funds, he rose, dusted sand from his backside, unfurled his pant legs, slipped wet socks on and into moist shoes, and walked to the grasslands behind him. Placing Gene’s letter into his breast pocket, he maneuvered down the dune and past the cheap Miami hotel. The words of the letter radiated their warmth through Edgar’s worn body and invigorated his step as he went down the lonesome city sidewalk.
With his will set and his wallet secure, he marched under the dim streetlights in search of the nearest bicycle shop, eager to spend his worth on a new set of wheels.
Seth Witherow Collection 
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