A Beautiful Day on the Beach

It’s a beautiful day on the beach I believe I have all to myself. The sun is red from all the smoke drifting over from what was downtown, but the air is dry and not too hot and the ocean is a color I recognize from before it overwhelmed coastlines and redefined the idea of “beach.”

“What have you got that’s valuable?” the shorter of my two assailants asks. I guess they snuck up while I was engrossed by the sea lapping at abandoned cars.

The rule is, I have to respond with the truth. Lying in these situations, if discovered, can lead to bad endings. The whole concept of ownership is a thing of the past. People will now routinely hand over the shirt off their back if asked. It appears that enlightenment has descended over society, that compassion has won out self-involvement, kindness over mean-spiritedness.

History tells a different story. In The Before of the early twenty-first century, artists experimented with disrupting the concepts of ownership. Non-Fungible Tokens allowed people to own art without ever possessing or even seeing the original. Ownership was everything, trumping the emotional or spiritual sustenance art can provide. The success of the experiment should have been sign enough that the end was near. Instead, it was taken to indicate that progress was being made out of the he-who-dies-with-the-most-possessions-wins mentality. The truth is less poetic. Now, the unspoken motto of The After is, “Don’t mess with the enlightened.”

“My friend asked you a question,” the taller thief says, obviously forgetting the inappropriateness of the possessive pronoun. He talks tough but his eyes are kind. “What have you got that’s valuable?”

“To whom?” I ask.

“Don’t be a smartass,” he says.

“My name is my most valuable possession,” I say. “I’d be lost without it.”

“And what is your name?”

“Fred,” I say.

“Well, Fred,” says the shorter and slightly rotund one. He still has his teeth so he isn’t a meth head but he looks to have that kind of unpredictable temper. “That is not the answer we’re looking for.”

“Please believe me,” I say. “I have no wish to offend.”

“Too late,” says the little man as the beating begins. It’s unnecessary. I have never learned to fight. I pose no threat to these two. But that isn’t the point. Administering the thrashing seems to give them great joy.

When it’s over they go through my pockets. They of course find nothing. I am about to sigh with relief when they rip open my shirt and discover the heart-shaped locket suspended by a piece of string around my neck. These guys look ragged and act sadistic, but the look of relief they share at the prospect that the beating may have yielded results is almost moving.

“What’s this?” asks the taller one.

“Hope,” I sigh.

The short one snatches it, pries it open. “There’s nothing in it,” he snarls.

“Not yet,” I say.

“Why didn’t you just give it to us?” asks the tall one. “You could’ve saved yourself some scars.”

“He’s clinging to hope,” the short one sneers.

I ignore him, pick up one of my teeth from the ground. “Do you want this too?” I ask. “You’ve earned it.”

The short one moves to restart the beating but the tall one holds him back.

“I’ll tell you what,” I say. “If I tell you a story, will you give it back?”

“Depends on the story,” says the tall one.

“It’ll be a good one, I swear,” I say.

“It’d better be,” says the short one.

“Can we move out of the sun?” I ask. They help me up and we move to the one tree that’s left close to where the road used to be. Disuse has left it cracked and spouting weeds we may need to eat.

“Once upon a time there were two guys,” I start. “A tall one and a short one. They loved each other desperately.”

“Hold on,” says the short one.

“I’ve barely begun.”

“Tell us a different one. And make it quick. We don’t want to be here when the sun sets.”

“Once upon a time there were two guys, a tall one and a short one. Their hatred for one another was virulent.”

“Forget the two guys,” says the tall one.

“I can’t,” I say. “They’ve made a lasting impression.”

“Do you want to die?” asks the short one.

“I might if you take my locket.”

“Good luck with that,” the tall one says, pocketing the locket. “Should’a come up with a more respectful narrative.” They high five one another, which requires some tricky maneuvering by the tall one due to their height difference, and off they go.

“Hold on,” I say. When they ignore me, I shout, “Once upon there were two guys who discovered the mechanism for jump-starting the world.”

The two assailants stop, turn around.

“Come back,” I say.

They reluctantly return.

“What do you think this place used to be?” I ask.

They look around at all the abandoned playground equipment. “A school?”

“Yeah,” I say. “A place that prepared kids for the future. Imagine that.”

“What?” asks the tall one.

“Optimism. A sense that even when we don’t know what the future might hold, there is still, inevitably, a future we can watch unfold.”

“There’s always a future,” says the tall one. “Nothing can stop time.”

“I did,” I say.

“We held up a crazy person,” says the short one. “Just our luck.”

“Do you want to go on the swings?” I ask. I stand and head to where three swings still hang. The remains of a basketball hoop linger nearby, net miraculously still attached, like it refuses to believe no one will ever play again.

“Hold on," says the short one. They both follow me.

“Try it,” I say. “It’s really calming.”

Surprisingly, they both start to swing, one on each side of me.

“I used to dream about pushing my kid on these,” I say. “Well, not these exact swings, but swings like this.”

“Yeah,” they both mutter. The short one adds, “We all had dreams.”

“What happened to your kid?” asks the tall one.

“Nothing happened to him. Ever. I vacillate between thinking that’s lucky and sad.”

“Probably both,” says the tall one.

“You’re smart,” I say. “Too smart for petty crime.”

“Crime is only petty when there’s an alternative. Tell us the story.”

“Once upon a time there were two guys,” I say. “A tall one and a short one. Once, they had big dreams but now those dreams have been reduced to mere hope for survival. They used to dream of a life that was more interesting and secure than paycheck to paycheck, but now all they can hope for is theft to theft. Or it was until they encountered the man who ended the world.”

“You’re delusional,” says the tall one. “You think you’re responsible for climate change, all by yourself?”

“We could have survived climate change. We could have found a way.”

“Then what?” asks the short one.

“Give me the locket,” I say, and he does. I open it. “Hard to imagine something so small could have such massive repercussions,” I say.

“What does this have to do with us?” the short one asks.

“Pay attention. The most valuable thing I ever had was the photo that used to be in this. Not valuable like a Picasso used to be valuable. Valuable as a reminder of the most beautiful woman who ever lived. Ever. In every way.”

“Your wife?” says the taller of the two. “Lucky you.”

“You have no idea,” I say. “She was the kind of beautiful who made me feel like more than I am, and also the kind of beautiful that would gain her entry into rooms the rest of us mere mortals would never see. I took advantage of that. Shame on me.”

“How?”

“I thought I could make a difference. In the world. I was an engineer. I designed a tiny bug. Hid it behind a picture of me so it would make sense if someone asked her about the locket. And sent her into one of those gatherings. You know the ones, where the elite used to plan and plot and gloat.”

Astonishment plays out on their previously bored faces. “You’re that guy?” the tall one demands.

“Change the narrative, change the world, I thought. Give people the truth in a way it can’t be denied. The truth will set us free. That was the hope.”

“Well,” says the short one. “You got the first part right.” The tall one seems shocked into silence.

“You don’t think we’ve been set free?” I ask.

“I think we’ve been doomed. I should probably kill you. You doomed us.”

“To what?” I ask.

“To this,” he says sweeping his arm out to encompass the surrounding destruction. “You arrogant prick, you started all this.”

“And you can finish it,” I say.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I heard a young woman on television once during The Before,” I say. “Thirty. Cancer, divorce, the works. When asked how she maintained such a sunny attitude, she responded, ‘I had to teach my heart to hope’.”

“Not everyone can do that,” says the tall one.

“Why not?” I ask, and hold the locket out to see if he’ll take it.