The Great "Modern Man"

The sea was earl gray and the afternoon misty. They were searching for oysters, not pearls, the birds. That’s why they were called Oystercatchers. The wise ones weren’t concerned with the bright and shiny prize inside, they just sought after what nourished them. Though the climate changed, by washed-up sands, by wind-built dunes and storms destroying them, by people and pollution, no matter the changing agent, this would always be home. This was their nature: to swoop down and catch their oysters, retelling the endless tales of their ancestors.

In the center of it all, Verona noticed the peaceful outlier, wearing black sweatpants and a loud white and orange tank top. His colors matched the birds too closely, like he certainly belonged there, at peace amongst the chaos of his next new adventure. He smiled up at the Oystercatchers as though he understood them enough to fly, dive into the sea and catch an oyster, or build a nest and be one with them there, a place he’d never been before.

Verona had been observing him, watching him like one of the birds. This eventually attracted his notice, but instead of thinking she was strange, he seemed to like being the center of someone’s attention. Periodically, green light from the lighthouse cast an inviting, soft glow over him. He smiled at her and extended a hand.

“I’m Charlie,” he said.

She shook it and replied, “Verona”.

Verona was laying on top of her bed at the Wauwinet Hotel, lost in thought and letting the sounds of the lobby float up the stairs and through her open door. Thinking back two days prior, she recalled something Charlie had shared with her on the train through Long Island. He said that he intended to move to a big city like New York someday with his childhood sweetheart. He only saw her a few times a year, but because her father was a family friend and business partner, it was always understood that they would end up together. She was a high-class woman, unrivaled in that sense, with an ironed, dark curtain of hair that flowed glossily down to her mid-back. She was expensive and insensitive, material and magical, frightening and invigorating. Together they would be the talk of the town, presumptuous and maintaining the living lavishness that their parents’ American dreams had realized.

Verona thought of how starkly different her own take on love had become. Like most American girls she had wasted the hours of her youth away, wishing on clean, bright stars for an impossibility; writing perfect fairytales and casting boys, who grew into men, as providers and saviors; physical manifestations of financial and emotional stability; and omnipotent sources of significance for absolving all the insufficiency that it was to be a woman.

As she mourned the untangled lies of her youth, she heard Charlie ascending the stairs. He was an obnoxious individual, and easy to hear coming. He was having some conversation on the phone it seemed, unbothered by any lack of privacy. So unbothered was he, that he had left his door wide open while he exercised at the hotel gym. He was seemingly careless, and simultaneously, so trusting it was heartwarming. The ease about which he conducted his affairs gave an onlooker restored hope in humanity, that one man could have such faith in the inherent goodness of mankind. This quality about him reminded Verona of Jay Gatsby, with that “extraordinary gift for hope”, as Nick Carraway put it.

After putting his things away and hanging up the phone, Charlie approached her doorway.

“Do you want to head down to the deck? I invited a few other guys from the group to come as well.”

“Sure,” said Verona coolly as she tucked a loose tuft of hair behind her ear. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and followed him downstairs. They conversed about some of the strange ways people were “working out” at the gym.

Once they reached the deck, the dying embers of sunset were lining the horizon, which could be seen clearly through the wall of windows that faced the sea. Inside was a long line of wicker chairs with cream cushions, and lanterns alight with fake flames. The lighting cast a warm, inviting glow over the scene as it cooled into the green and blue tones of evening. Outside the first stars were appearing high in the navy-blue velvet of the sky, growing steadily blacker as time inched closer to the next day’s dawn.

Seeing that the others had opted out of joining them, Verona agreed with Charlie that the dusk was best spent by the water, so they stepped out between the lush gardens of Lady and Evergreen Wood ferns that framed the walkway from the hotel to the beach. The black mulch was scarcely visible beneath the Virgin’s Bower vine that covered the ground and crept up the sides of the building to weave between the bars of each room’s balcony. Miniscule white flowers sprung up between the dark leaves, indicative that a starry night served first as muse for Mother Earth, and only after this as muse for her constituents.

Arriving at the shoreline, Charlie commented on the boat lights that could be seen steadily bobbing over the horizon. One day, he decided, he would have his own vessel, and declare himself the captain. He’d sail it far and wide and travel the whole world to experience its wonders. Suddenly his fantasy was distracted by a pile of smooth stones that had washed up nearby.

“Have you ever skipped stones?” he asked Verona.

“A few times,” she replied, unconfidently. “I’m not all that great, honestly.”

“Here,” he said as he offered her a stone. “You have to keep a smooth motion all the way through, and when you get to the end of your throw, you flick your wrist to give it some spin.” He was demonstrating what a wind-up would look like but hadn’t cast his stone away yet.

Verona attempted to imitate his movements, to which he restrainedly responded with, “That’s sort of it but… with practice you’ll get it”. She shot him a stern but playful glance that acknowledged she had sensed his dissatisfaction. To this, he laughed amusedly to himself.

Her first throw sunk into an incoming wave immediately. Charlie combed the beach for more stones, butchering a few throws of his own between teaching Verona about the appropriate angle of launch and desired weight of skipping stones - stones that she quickly learned were distinctly different than just any old rock.

As Verona was losing enthusiasm for the sport, Charlie exclaimed, “Verona! Come look at this!”

As Verona made her way over to where Charlie was crouched down with his phone flashlight igniting the sand, she noticed nothing at first but some small holes in the Earth.

“What are we looking at?” she whispered inquiringly, eyes wide and searching for something impossibly small to see.

“Ok,” began Charlie, “Look to the left where my flashlight gets dimmer.”

Verona realized soon that he was averting the harsh, unnatural spotlight from the critters so they wouldn’t bury themselves again. The holes she had observed belonged to Atlantic Ghost Crabs, evidently. She began to see a few scurrying sideways on their little legs, clickity clackity, like muted keys on a typewriter as Charlie adjusted the beam of light outwardly and inched a little closer to the direction they were escaping in.

“Atlantic Ghost Crabs…” Verona and Charlie whispered together, still entranced. They locked eyes momentarily and exchanged an affirmation of true understanding. They were synchronous in their shared spontaneity for adventure and the night, for life, the study of it, it’s conservation. And after the gravity of that connection sunk in, discomfort, as it often does, replaced her beauty with the common constraints and fears of reality. Charlie broke his gaze first, staring at the ground and collecting himself, shaking the encounter off like it was embarrassing. The two remained in silence for a moment.

“What do you see in her?” asked Verona, overcome by sudden emotion.

Charlie froze, unexpectant of this change in subject. He distractedly tilted his light over other parts of the beach, exposing some trash that had been left behind and weathered in the marine environment.

“This generation is doomed…” he declared, suddenly forceful and melancholy. “All the generations before failed us. Look at this dumpster fire…. I mean the Earth is literally on fire. That’s why this generation has to explore space. So we have somewhere else to live once we’ve totally destroyed this planet.”

“We’re primitive people,” said Verona dryly, staring straight ahead. Charlie looked at her curiously, awaiting a further explanation.

“Since we’re near New York I’ve been rereading The Great Gatsby.” Verona continued. “Even scholars have made connections between the 1920s and now. I mean think about it - political unrest, mental illness, technological innovations, a growing divide between generations and between the rich and poor. And relationships… those haven’t changed a bit, really.”

Charlie laughed scornfully, shaking his head as if what she said was preposterous.

Verona, looking back at him, arms crossed, eyebrows raised, returned to their original topic of conversation. “What’s so great about this girl that you only see a few times a year?”

Charlie, baffled, stuttered a bit before Verona continued.

“Does she know much, or anything about conservation? That you’re passionate about it? I do. I see it in your face, you light up over this stuff. You blend right in like you’re one with the sea and sky. Like this is where you belong.”

Charlie stared at the ground, agitatedly biting his nails now, too bombarded by the heaviness of her statement to respond.

Verona, watching him carefully added, “I’ve only known you for four days and I still know that about you.”

“… Conservation doesn’t pertain to Juliet…” he started.

“Why can’t you just acknowledge that there’s something between us? That this makes way more sense than Juliet?”

Now Charlie, who had drawn into himself, was led back out by a smoldering bitterness. “Frankly, I can’t envision someone like you understanding the responsibility that it is to maintain my family’s business and reputation.”

At this comment, Verona felt a hot wave of inadequacy wash over her. She now understood that according to him, she was born different: lesser than. The unworthiness was shooting through her now boiling blood.

“So you don’t think THIS is primitive, Mr. Gatsby?” Mocking him, she produced a deeper voice. “Sorry, old sport, I only have room for Daisy and bootlegging in MY vision.” Returning to her normal voice she yelled, “You let society’s ancient idea of being ‘the man’ govern every major decision in your life outside of here, meanwhile denying your true feelings to appear ‘strong’ and ‘successful’ and ‘well-respected’.”

Charlie stood up from where they were sitting in the sand, enraged, and yelled back at her, “You’ve known me for FOUR days!”

“And yet I know you better than most people in your life. If that doesn’t prove my point, I don’t know what does,” she growled.

“You don’t know anything about me!” He fired back with a wild gesture. “Just shut up and quit telling me how to live my life!” Exasperated, he kicked some sand and stormed away, back to the hotel.

Verona screamed out after him, “Well I thought I’d give it a shot since you listened to everyone else who told you what to do!!”

Verona sat shaking and enraged, fingers pulling at her hair, staring into the black of night. For the first time that evening she noticed a familiar green light casting over the ocean. It was shining from the lighthouse, and it reminded her of the ideal in she and Charlie’s initial meeting, when they first encountered the light, before the truth proved too much to handle and extinguished what may have been.

Verona cried and cried.