Beach Town Boom

Innocence, peace and creativity vs. Development, greed and ignorance

Before the Storm

By

Pete Dooley

A Parable for Our Time

e

i

Beach Town BoomCopyright © 2004

Pete Dooley

All Rights Reserved

Beach Town Boom

P.O. Box 372645

Satellite Beach fl. 32937

www.beachtownboom.com

Cover: NASA-Goddard Space Flight Center, data from NOAA GOES

ii

iii

Beach Town Boom

A creator, wisdom, nature, a garden, two trees; One tree called Life, the other, called Good and Evil. A young man and a young

woman find themselves in an idyllic setting, their simple life inundated with greed, lust and avarice. All cast in the shadow of a storm,

created within, brewing without. Another world, one of tikis and art, expressions of anger, fear, stoic in presence, observing, serving,

being observed. The thought and sprit of art is thrust into man’s self-inflicted turmoil. Can nature, art and beauty survive mankind?

Can mankind survive without it? The winds of change are upon us...

iv

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. GENESIS.............................................................................................1

2. AS TIME PASSES...............................................................................5

3. THE FALL.........................................................................................19

3. PROGRESS........................................................................................32

4. ACCORDING TO TIKIS.....................................................................................50

5. CONFLICT.........................................................................................57

6. THE STORM......................................................................................82

7. OIL SLICK GLASS............................................................................................113

8. EPILOG............................................................................................117

v

Genesis

In the beginning....

There is a town, a community, an existence of natural beauty cast on a shore beside the ocean. Verdant billows of growth

cover the shoreline, citrus abounds, bananas, springs and a plentiful sea. In a flash, a naked man-child swings past, charging through

an idyllic garden.

Looking down from the blue sky above, a circling osprey scans the scene below. There is an ancient beach house close to the

shore behind it a huge tract of land. A young carpenter is on the beach house roof putting the final touches on a repair. He pauses and

looks up. His T-shirt reads; Greg Reed, best carpenter you ever (there is a drawing of a saw where the word saw should be). Adjacent

to the beach house is a huge beautiful garden in which it seems anything can grow. The youth dives into a crystal clear pool.

Bordering the beach house compound, of home, garden, and lush setting, is a small town. This town, is not fully configured,

its governing body is housed in a small building with only a rudimentary governmental uberstat. Observed from above, in our bird of

prey magnification, we see in a small room, in chair one, the skinny and diminutive hair trigger (trying to sleep with one eye open)

Randy Bolus. Though no such designation has been created, he carries himself in what he considers is a chiefly manner. New to the

force of two, is Andy Botchis. A young man honorably discharged from military adventures abroad. Andy had been in the presence of

flying projectiles of death, though only in boot camp. Andy, sleeps more soundly, dreamily assuring himself, eyes closed, that he

would be at the ready, should any malice with forethought occur.

Beach Town Boom

The city center, a small shack, is housed at the main crossroads of Crescent Beach. On the building’s east side is a narrow

highway; A1A, running north and south, parallel to the Ocean, the length of Florida’s east coast. On the north side slicing East to west,

river to sea, is Minuteman Causeway, named after a revolutionary war force, touted to be ready at a minutes notice. A more apt name,

in this town, might be “Just a Minute” Causeway.

Across from the small wooden building housing city hall, in contrast, stands the Mai Tiki gallery and studio. The two Mai

Tiki buildings are a constant explosion of activity, the fuse, Y. A. Wayne. He is the creator/curator, wood carver, stone carver, maker

of waterfalls and dinosaurs. Throughout the studio and gallery are carvings and drawings, faces and beings, expressions of joy and

anger. The buildings are crammed full with an endless assortment of carved emotive states.

Short note: Always known as Wayne or Wayno, the Y. A. is dropped as unspeakable because the rumored response to,

"What's the Y. A. stand for?" Does a large chisel, shortly follow “Your Ass”, and hatchet-swinging fist resembling a small ham,

stopping only inches from the uninitiated potentially flattened nose.

The petite, always calming, "Wayne, stop that,” rescuer of many a witty inquisitive tourist, is Wayne’s soul mate, Rebecca

Wisdom. Rebecca, in southern circles of familiarity, has always been known as “Bek” or “Beki”. Rounding out the center of creation

are two young men, Mike A. Engle and Lu Cipher. Michael, large, strong, blond, and ruddy, is always at the ready, always at work.

Mike lives in an apartment above the gallery. Luis Cipher, dark, handsome and talented, known simply as Lu, carves art pieces signed

with an artistic flourish, a black heart and the letter U. His carvings, dark and brooding, are not produced with much proficiency.

Wayno (acceptable) has always looked aside at Lu’s shortcomings in hopes of developing and strengthening Lu’s artistic reservoir. A

seeping and leaking reservoir that is constantly under attack from the bottomless pit of his dark side.

The huge natural compound and beach house south of town is Wayne and Beki’s home. The beach house land runs from

ocean to river east to west encompassing the lot on which garden lies. In a second floor room, behind the beach house resides Mark, a

painter of watercolor fantasy. His work is on permanent exhibit in the Mai Tiki Gallery. A burly man with a gray beard, gruff and

reclusive, he works in one small room. Over the doorway, leading into his small, but deep world, reads the word “nature”, it is painted

in aqua, on a curve, fitting the top of a worn, worm eaten piece of driftwood. Nature is written NVTURE; the "A" is upside down,

looking like at the letter V, Mark is after all, an artist. In the room are paintings and buckets of color precariously perched throughout,

fine papers, beautiful washes of color on unfinished drawings and pencil notes pinned on color smeared walls. Wayne loves Mark,

because he loves beauty. Beki loves Mark as well but says, "If he doesn't clean that place up something is going to crawl out of that

mess and bite his ass."

2

Pete DooleyBeki is a lady, but around men (especially men in the art community) nowadays women can say ass. In this more open

society it has come to light that within the secret society of women "having lunch" the word ass is bandied about quite often. As in:

her big ... or He is SUCH an ... Well SHE can just kiss my ... Much of this attributed to coffee and cake, sugar/caffeine overload.

Returning to Mark; such admiration and love has Wayne for Mark that the artist has been given the run of the beach house

and its peaceful deck over looking the ocean, during the day. Most days Mark just wanders around in an oversized billowing night

shirt, splattered with coffee stains and colored by blue/purple/greens of hand swipes, unconsciously made during gifted moments of

artistic serendipity.

Mark’s free time is used to create, Wayne and Beki’s time is spent chopping, hacking, painting and displaying in the studio

and gallery, midtown. Not bad, considering Mark’s rent is paid for the occasional painting displayed and soon sold in the gallery.

Mark’s days are spent catching his muse on the beach house deck, cup (bowl) of coffee in hand staring in privacy out over the vast

sea. Beki swears this privacy is a by-product of the occasional ocean breeze blowing up Mark’s nightshirt as he dozes off. Mark’s

daily naps were not the beautiful tropical scenes depicted on any of the real estate catalogs or chamber of commerce portfolios. An old

pirate in a mid day snooze, night shirt unfurled and flapping in the onshore breeze would cause the most dedicated of the meandering

tourist shell poachers to circle back towards Crescent beach proper. Most tourists avoided this, “Scary over grown” (natural) part of

the beach.

Today, as is often the case, Mark’s doze is disrupted by thrashing and laughter, running and swooshing, from the garden next

door. With snort and snuffle, he brushes his nightshirt down in one swipe. He cranks himself up and out of the beach chair, rounding

over to the south, using the right elbow as a fulcrum. The pivot, perfected over years of repetition, always displays Mark’s rather

unattractive rear view in the direction of any unfortunate shell-poaching tourist meandering to far from the main beach area. The

visitors, unfortunate enough to be in the sights of such a weapon wisely retreat, waddling at an even more fastidious pace with each

look over the shoulder. Mark rolls his eyes and mutters "JEEZ" huffing and lumbering off to his studio/cot-of-muse, scowling in the

direction of the garden on his trek du repose.

The ball of energy is young Adam. From whence? Adam is another magnanimity of Wayne, a kid whom Wayne and Beki see

all future growth and potential. He has been given free reign of the garden and nearly all in it. Adam excels in its abundance. Fish in

the ocean, fresh water in the spring fed pond, grape fruit, bananas, tomatoes, and coconut trees growing wild. Sun bleached hair,

bronze skin, unworn by the worries and much less the burdens of labor and living, as in: earning a. Water man supreme, swimming

and surfing are his art of expression. Drawing strokes, carving, punching and caressing across waves as his mentor Wayne might

wood or stone. Halcyon days, sun and breezes; clothing optional. Adams contribution? Gifted with a wit and eye, Wayne brings his

creations to Adam who blurts out names for each carved piece. Names that only enhanced the humor, strength or nobility of each of

his creations. Beki told Wayne "If that kid doesn't start wearing some clothes, something is going to bite him on his bronze ass.”

3

Beach Town BoomNature draws supreme beauty; this beach this garden is a beautiful masterpiece unto itself. Well, almost to itself.

Through wind swept hair beneath the shade of the tree lined shore is an observer. A young lady not so readily turned away as

most tourists.

Wayne and Beki have no immediate offspring of their own. The opportunity to pass an infant back and forth with loaded

diaper never occurred. Beki cradles the phone, while shuffling orders dealing with customers. Wayne chops great chunks of wood

from tree trunks, fathering creations far and wide of stone and wood. They do love children, Wayne; a giant kid himself, many days

would put on a show, carving in front of the studio. He would continue his carving until the crowd of local school children grew to

large or got out of hand, climbing, touching, questioning. The scene altered only slightly from day to day, Wayne would choose the

best moment and turn screaming after one great cha-thunk of the carving hatchet. He would lift his right thumb up covered by the right

forefinger at the knuckle, keeping the left thumb folded over. To the uninitiated this resembled a chopped off thumb. With great hacks

of laughter he would watch as pigtails and schoolbooks scattered. Ear splitting screams ensued, part of an, on the way home from

school, daily ritual. It is not that they didn't try the gift of procreation; the creator and Wisdom had a special part of the garden just to

themselves, off limits to even Adam and all else who ventured in.

Wayne and Beki’s special place in the garden, a high ground where one (or two) could see the ocean through palm fronds.

Wondrous nights and cool evening sunsets were enjoyed in a hammock strung between two large and beautiful cocoa palms,

musically swaying under the stars to hidden rhythms in every ocean breeze. The hammock, wide and strong, joined the two great trees

together, strung lazily at the bending hips of each palm. Some nights the rhythm of the ocean breezes seemed in misbeat with the huge

palm fronds visible above the canopy of the garden. One could hear coconuts falling to ground and great peals of laughter as if thunder

in the distance.

On one such night in a crescendo of love and commingling, one of the most prime of coconuts fell and augured into the

ground right beside the hammock. It immediately took to seed. One might say, in a poetic sort of way, they did have an offspring. On

these nights, Mark would often shrug and chuckle, mumbling, "He and Wisdom are one.” Love among the palms inspired one of

Mark’s finer pieces. It was a painting of a little humanoid being, a seedling under ground, sweet and pure, a sprout fed umbilically

from the light on its leaves above ground. Ah, Art doth tell a story.

4

Pete Dooley

As Time Passes

Time passes; things grow, bud and beautify. Alternately, in part of the same cycle they corrode, mold, age and die. The town

is now home to a burgeoning technology, a launch pad to space. Houses and condominiums now dot the osprey's view from above.

Young Greg Reed has lost the tacky T-shirt and has been elevated to contractor. He drives a large, new, pick up truck, one

with big wheels, and a carpenters level is hung in the gun rack. Where once was a cool low slung carpenters belt now is a cell phone

saddle. The hard hat worn now is by the requirement of government mandate, not born of necessity.

From the osprey’s view from above, the progress and its indigestion is on display. There was a great burping, belching, and

farting cacophony throughout the town and surrounding area. Growth and development deforest and destroy. The sounds of scratching

and itching of saws replaces chatter of squirrels, bulldozers deep groan overtakes the thump of the ocean waves. Great boils and

blisters redraw the town’s once natural landscape.

Awarded the contract for the new city hall, Greg Reed employed a new technique he read about in Builders Journal. The

building was constructed with great slabs of pre formed polystyrene foam. He convinced the aging city commission and its soon

retiring mayor, Dodge Murkee of its feasibility. The design resembled a futuristic mosque, complete with turrets and foam-molded

columns wowing the futurists and voters. It was the low bid. Crescent Beach had a new and large imperious city hall. Greg Reed kept

adding to his resume, and wardrobe, as his career blossomed.

Near the garden, close to one of the last vestiges of the area remaining as it once was, the wispy haired beauty is revealed.

Lying in the sun, skin as golden as our Adam, she is also operating in a clothing optional fashion.

5

Beach Town Boom

Essene Vie, having grown up on the beaches of France, could never get accustomed to this countries fear, statutes and

aversion, regarding outer wear at such natural setting as the beach. In her home area, Isle d’ Orleon she had been running around

naked all summer at the beach since she was able to remember. She reasoned; here, it is even warmer, and warmer longer, so,

clothing? Non!

She found refuge near the edge of town, bordering the natural enclave where the tourists with their high socks, well pressed

shorts end their meanderings. There were no such puritanical rules at this end of the beach. The older man on the deck seemed to have

no care about his janglings. It brought to memory when Le mayor would shuffle down the beach on summer days with his wife

Cossette. The girl chuckled to herself, “Maybe a law or two wouldn't be so bad.” Through the palm fronds in her little haven, a sun

drenched clearing in the palms, she could see the young man in his adventures. After years of seeing most all of everyone and

continental in all her views, she still couldn't help the little flutter in her chest and warming in her cheeks, every time this young

madman ran to and fro from the sea. She repeatedly caught herself lifting her head as she sunned, or opening one eye, as this wild

youth came slashing across some wave, and it angered her. "pfft what a child."

One special effervescent, squintingly bright day, the waves were exceptionally large. Not gray and stormy as is common in

the Cote de Basque near her home. They were aqua, clear crystal, shimmering and huge. Evie, as she was known as since she was le

bebe, propped herself up on her elbows to see the frenzied boy run and project into the sea. He skimmed the surface for yards; back

arched, head up, paddling furiously as he neared the first wall of foam. The drowning wall of whitewater approached. She saw him

push down on his board with his arms, raising his hind portion (derrière) sinking the front portion of the board. This submarining

motion appeared to worsen his critical situation and send him downward towards certain doom. Evie bounced up to a sitting position,

back arched, heart racing, "Merd.”

She scanned the shore and ocean assured the young fools carcass would come rolling ashore. The thundering wall of foam

rolled in after the wave broke, multiplying its shore ward rate of speed confident in victory over the small invader. It resembled a

newspaper rolled up to swat a bug, voila! Then she saw it happen. Wet and sleek the boy reappeared from below the sea behind le

vage du Morte. Somewhere between cloud and rain, liquid to snow crystal, the degree between hot water and boiling, a view can

transform. No longer a boy, she saw a man.

Sounding like a thundering heard of horses, exploding on the shore, the wave seemed frustrated having over shot its prey. It

soon became a rolling log of sand and water, morphing into a bobbing heard of poodles, dissolving into a bubbling soup of foam, it’s

power spent, a muffled pop and hiss, consumed by the hot sand. The cool defeated residue tickled Evie’s toes.

“Qua?” the exhilaration had projected the young beauty up to a standing position at the edge of the trees. Sensibilities

returning, she found herself on the beach, on her toes, arched to the limit of her height, one arm reaching far over her head, fist

6

Pete Dooleyclenched as if poking an imaginary sword into the belly of the sky. The wind chose to escape from her lungs as sense of surroundings

increased.

"What am I the statue of liberty?" she admonished herself in a whispered yell.

Evie crouched, looking from side to side, hands and arms covering her once free upper torso. Suddenly reminded she was in

America, land of the not so free, (at least when naked). She hunched backward into the woods in three short shuffling steps. Caressed

by a palm frond, insulted by an abrupt goose from an adolescent sprout of a tree, Evie spun as she came to the clearing, prepared to

slap herself. She shook her head, all the emotions, palpitations, joy and concern flooded into a momentary rage. What! She thought,

(much less in English) has happened to me? What have I become? Am I an American bimbo cheerleader?

Cheerleader, the word brought back a flood of memories. Evie recalled a special television show on the boring national

television station at home. She was having friends sleep over, fellow students from Ecole San Marie. A convent of purity and grace,

dashed with the hiss and claw that can only come from a massing in great numbers of pre and pubescent femes. Evie recalled rolling

on the floor with laughter as friends mimicked the perk and pose of these obviously quaint, colonial folk. In an instant, the why and

wherefore of the memory came racing over her. It vectored in on the here and now. A cold chill ran through her blood.

Her fathers face, Minister Paul Vie, flashed by on a news interruption of the documentary they were so giddily involved in.

He was shown being led from his office in Paris, pops of paparazzi light bulbs splashing in his downcast, handsome face. The reporter

in a shrill demonstrative voice carping as if he knew or as if there was some kind of conviction! "Minister Paul Vie was collected from

his office today and taken to police headquarters, for his potential involvement in the scandal and bribery charges, brought up against

the government official, for accepting bribes from construction companies.”

A tear rolled down her cheek, across the side of her down-turned mouth, off the edge of her chin, skipping off the tip of her

free again breast, through the fronds, to the sand covering her delicate tan feet.

Her parents, sadly, had shipped Evie to distant relatives in the United States, hoping to spare her the harassment and torment

they knew was in store. They reasoned she should be over-sea until these accusations had run their course. Evie was supposed to

introduce herself to someone she had never met! She had been given a letter of introduction to an artist of some kind, a distant relative,

who lived by the shore in a town called Crescent Beach. Her parents, with tears and shaking hands, assured her this would keep her far

from the eyes and ears of the prying newsmen. Adieu.

Evie chose to rent a small room in town, gather her thoughts and independently compose a new life. After all, she was no

longer a little girl; she was a young lady of eighteen.

Her new routine had been to relax and sedate herself with the smells and caressing breezes of the shore. The random

thumping and rhythmic swooshing of the waves, expended on the shore and the warmth, were embryonic. She was comforted there,

7

Beach Town Boomnaked and pure, cleansed of pain. Now, all these thoughts came flooding back. With a sigh deep as love she turned slowly and calmly

took two additional steps back, subdued with emotions passing. The breeze caressed her face and brushed back the hair from her

down-turned face. She leaned against a tall, firm palm tree and looked out to sea.

In town, Wayne, in front of the studio, was carving a soon to be finished, small tiki, its face an expression of shock. Andy had

been sent across the street by, ”pst” chief Bolus. (The pst, a reference, an annotated sound Andy had perfected to denigrate-designate

that; though Bolus had been on the force before him and had some seniority, no one had yet officially proclaimed this little guy;

chief). Andy was sent over from the "Fortress of Zandor”, Wayne's personal name for the gaudy structure. Headquarters, was its new

designation by the growing force. The police now referred to themselves as the force. Botchis had been sent to inform Wayne that the

ocean was on the rise. The phone had been ringing all morning. The force received numerous phone calls from shrill, panicky seniors,

at headquarters.

The newest entrants to the town population, touted by local realtors as low maintenance, high income, poured in over the last

few, boom years. They came from the soft brown innards of New Jersey, and the salt-water free plains of southern Ohio. They

migrated south to falter and sway, shrivel and shrink, and then quietly pass away in refrigerated boxes stacked skyward. Condominium

living.

They were stacked in places with names like Vista del Mar, or Las Brisas, names the conquistadors may have used to ply

additional funds from the original real estate developers, queen Isabella of Spain, or Lizzy in England. As time passes age takes with it

the confidence and strength of youth. Del Mar: translated the sea, becomes something to fear and thus demand control of.

"Those clowns in city hall should put up a jetty or a breakwater like in Seaside or Atlantic city.”

"Yeah I remember when that damned Ohio jumped the banks in Piqua." Statements such as these were the hue and cry at the

condo association meetings. At their present age, the Vista, or view, is closed off by safe and secure roll up hurricane shutters. This

new political force had put out the call. The Ocean was flooding its banks.

Wayne had been the rescuer and refuge since time immemorial. Andy and the men on the force had referred to Wayne as

Civil Defense Director for as long as they could remember. Wayne used no such designation.

Officer Andy Botchis liked Wayne; or felt something between the shoulder blades that any man of authority might feel when

meeting another man of authority. Andy observed that Wayne was nearly double the volume and size he was, and that Wayne's right

hand (the one with the hatchet in it) was large enough to spin Andy's new city issue police hat off as if it was a yoohoo bottle cap.

Andy often wondered if this giant would ever be on call, say, if the boys on the force needed some back up clearing out one of the new

biker bars or general drunkard farms bunched at the ocean end of Minuteman Causeway. These dives were condensed like weeds

8

Pete Dooleyoverlooking once pristine sands of the Atlantic shore, filling Las Brisas with the smell of urine and stale beer, dotting Le Mer with

cigarette butts and discarded plastic beer cups.

"Yo Wayne, the oceans up!" Andy employed the designation that only someone who had never ventured to remove his shiny,

faux paten leather, wing tips and shed his black, regulation issue thick and thin socks to venture or even touch his soft pink bottomed,

lily white topped feet into the ocean, (damn sharks). Wayne grabbed his new creation, rolled it under his arm whacking the hatchet

into a nearby stump.

"Hey, I'll check it out." He was already on his way home for lunch and to see if the kid had some cool name for the new tiki

face. His mission: In no special order of importance, was to see if Beki had some lemonade or iced tea made and, what, there was to

eat. He already knew about the ocean. A living, feeding, consuming, entity that man in all his impunity still tried to control.

To those who experience life next to the vast and powerful sea, a jetty, a seawall, it makes no difference, soon the sneaking

relentless ocean will find a way around any foundation trying to control it. Efforts to control an ocean's motion, only causes it to seek

it’s own form of revenge. If jetties block flowing currents and sand flow to or from one beach, those to one side or other, starve and

shrink. One such Jetty to the north of Crescent Beach was built to protect the harbor and the cruise ships within.

How do you win? Wayne always referred to a boxer called, “The Greatest”. In a boxing match against a much larger foe he

stared at absolute defeat. His strategy was to lean back, absorb blows, hold on, and avoid the deathblow until the storm subsided.

Wayne understood and respected the ocean. His strategy for existing so many years by its shore; Give, hold, retreat and give some

more.

On the deck of the beach house Wayne could see the ocean’s magnificent beauty in its totality. A clear sunny day, aqua clear,

walls of water, bright white blasts creating rolls of foam. He could see the tiniest dot of a human form, elevator dropping from the top

of a ten-foot wall into a cylindrical maw. The lip of the wave was bigger than the surfer. Elevated on the deck he could see into the

deep trough of the wave. The surfer, (Wayne had instinctively known it was the kid) crouched so low into his initial driving turn that

his chin nearly touched the water. In beautiful form, his inside arm bent, hand next to his cheek inches from the wave face, was half

open and relaxed. His outside arm extended to aim his projected line across what seemed to be an endless wall of water. The great

mass of water pitched and extended far out over the speeding human projectile, resembling a hand lacking the dexterity to grip an ant

scrambling across its palm.

Adam knew the safest place was tight against that inside wall of water. He drove up towards the center of the wave, the lip

exploding behind, and thankfully, below him. The water rushing up the wave face and the waves shore ward motion suspended Adam

in a cocoon of motion. Through the pressurized hiss, he could hear his heartbeat. He threw his arms high over his head. Yards ahead

he could barely make out a distant opening, an exit strategy from the huge swirling tunnel. From his speed line, across the middle of

9

Beach Town Boomthe wave face, he extended his body to its full height and stretching his hand to the fullest extent of his reach. This was a very big

wave. Lost in time, suspended in a speeding vortex, he rode the thin line between safety and doom. Time loss, forever in seconds,

control gave way to instinctive trust, riding the explosion at blurring speed. A hissing roar , the breath of the giant water dragon

spewed from it’s churning innards a jettison of compressed air and water on to Adam’s back, Adam was now chattering along on the

shoulder of the wave. The shoulder, or yet unbroken part of the wave, on any other day would have been in itself a huge wave.

The great torrent of air and water, compressed from tons of descending water, engulfed him. The explosion, too late to

capture him flicked board and rider airborne. Time had caught up to the ant in the palm and flicked it with the proverbial thumb and

forefinger. Adam was projected ten feet in the air. His spinning board, at one time under foot, soon parallel, at a different weight speed

trajectory intersected with the kid’s reintroduction to gravity. It smashed into his side. All operative air remaining in his lungs not

expelled during the bloody victory yell of "yeah ha haw ha" involuntarily escaped with a verbal and carnal "houngg?" Black fades in

before aqua as he falls towards the water unconscious. All form is lost. Chin first, shoulder, then side, onto back, tossed into the sea as

if a candy wrapper off a cruise ship. His weight and velocity, kwoosh, drive him below the surface.

Wayne felt the juices and energies of the sea. If there was any waves to be ridden Adam was surfing, whenever the wave of

the day would come through, Adam was on it. Adam’s life was simply, the garden, and the waves breaking out in front of it. Adam

was the best surfer this town had ever seen. Wayne had shown Adam the basics of wave riding and had shaped him his first board.

Wayne, Mark and Beki spent countless hours enjoying his artistry and skill on the waves. All skill and beauty aside, for all men there

are limitations, chance, gravity, and wind velocity in its proper time can create a violent event. Even the Greatest had chirped across

the canvas when Smokin Joe Frazier clacked that over hand right into the left side of his jaw. Wayne knew the difference between the

many falls one takes at the hand of the ocean. This one was not good. He spun from the deck to get his board. He saw a flash of

someone charging into the ocean as he turned.

Evie had seen the boy get blown into the air. Was this another antic? She saw him crash into his board in mid air. She saw

him dropping through the air towards the sea as her rag doll had done. Falling from the shelf over her door the night she was told by

her mother that she was going to America. ‘Until things sorted out at home.’ Slam! Her door closed, the doll fell.

The boy did not resurface. His board was bobbing towards the shore, resembling a stick of butter in a blender filled with

milk. On her toes at the edge of the clearing, she didn't have time to think. Immediately the heartbeat thumping in her ears matched the

sound and rhythm of her feet churning through the wet sand. Numb to texture changes of water or temperature she swam frantically

out through the whitewater. She did remember the boy diving below the oncoming walls of foam. The first mass of broken wave

approached. She questioned her sanity. For an instant too long Evie stared at the white wall of froth, two meters high, before she dove

down.

10

Pete Dooley An instant, in relationship to timing, can change a life, be an opportunity missed or an impact felt. Evie received the

latter. Diving below the surface towards the bottom, her ears popped as she was compressed into the depths. She was picked up as if

pulled by her hair, arched backwards, and slammed back into the bottom, whunng. All air gone. Arms flailing, she tried to swim to the

surface. Was this now up or was it down? Hurtled and spun she opened her eyes to see the light far away, past bubbles and swirls.

Something bumped her side, the boy, as if asleep, rapidly swirled away. Evie was pulled downward into gray, then blackness.

Wayne charged down to the edge of the ocean, feeling the force of the broken waves rushing up the beach. The water was

moving with such force, the initial contact with his shins blasted water up to his chest. Prepared to project onto the deck of his board

and drive into the surf, he saw what seemed to be a log rolling in the white water. Wayne reminded himself to always be on the watch

in bigger surf for such things. Great storms uproot entire trees from Caribbean shores, pulling them into traveling currents. The

driftwood and seeds regenerate life all along ocean current landfalls, fertilizing, taking to seed, anchoring soft sands. Wayne scanned

the whitewater, for trees or coconuts among the currents.

“ADAM!”

Down the beach to the north, arms flopping, a torso rolled in the massive waves expended whitewater. Legs twisting, the

unconscious Adam ended his roll abruptly, having been pushed up the beach to the base of the garden’s trees. He began a slow tumble

in the backwash, back towards the sea.

The ocean has no respect for sea captain vessel or surf hero. It tossed the kids body like some stiff that was caught dissing da

boys in da hood. The white water retreated as Wayne approached, dropping to one knee turning the kid over. Sargasso weed and sand

covered the boy. Wayne turned Adam’s head, leaned against his chest and heard the gurgling of labored breathing, and a faint

heartbeat. He lifted Adam’s head as a rush of white water shot up his back, rolling a log over him. “Great!” Wayne knew the log

would roll back over them when the backwash retreats to the ocean. He reached to scoop up Adam and instinctively looked up the

beach, to see the distance the log was from their position. His jaw dropped, it was another sand covered body rolling back towards

them. Arms, fingers, hair, loosely coming to rest like a floppy beach hat over Adam. Torso two was breathing. After clearing shells

and seaweed from Adam’s passageway Wayne began to breathe into Adams mouth. He turned his head each time, knowing from

experience, the extra water now in the air reprocessing sacks would come jettisoning out.

“Guhack, blhook, pluerqe.” Nothing resembling television rescues, Adam was wheezing, regurgitating, groaning, and semi

comatose. Wayne noticed the dent in the boy’s side; the board might have dislodged a rib. Both were now breathing. Wayne grabbed

them and rolled them up under his arms as if they were two palm logs, drag-carrying them both into the dry, shaded, safety of the

garden. Logs, though twice the weight, were much easier to carry. The two, sandy, slippery, unconscious forms, had the consistency of

an octopus out of water. He deposited the two next to the spring and hurried off to the beach house to get additional equipment.

11

Beach Town Boom

Evie coughed, trying to remember where she was and what she was doing. It all came rushing over her in a tingling

realization. She looked over and saw him. The crazy boy had almost killed them both! Or maybe, only killed himself, the breath again

left her. Evie raised herself up, crawling on hands and knees over to check on the immobile body. He was breathing gently and in a

deep sleep, a giant bruise on his left side where his board had hit him. A gentle sigh came over her, deep within, and a smile cracked

through the sand, caked on her face.

"Ourooff,” she growled lifting her fist, she wanted to but couldn't rain blows all over this sleeping fool. On her knees, one

hand raised, the other supporting her weight, she let herself roll into the crystal, clear, cold water. She shook her head underwater

attempting to remove the caked on sand. It felt as if it might become a permanent part of her long sandy hair. Evie let out a growl

underwater, frantically rubbing her hands over herself to remove the sand from, "Mon Diu," every nook and cranny. Just before

surfacing, it struck her. What, had happened? Had she saved the surfer? Had he saved her? How had she gotten here? She looked

around side to side; no one was around except the unconscious boy.

She observed the beauty surrounding her; fruit trees, bananas, coconuts, the sun glinting through the canopy of trees, so many

flowers, such a garden. She pulled herself out of the spring pool, the breezes began to dry her, and the warmth enveloped her. Should

she leave and abandon the young fool who she had now given a life to, or had given hers back?

There was a rustling through the palms; it was the giant man she had sometimes observed at the beach house with his tiny

lady friend. He was purposefully negotiating his way through the wall of green. Hearing the first click of twig under foot, her options

were, to run, or return to the spring tut suite. Evie spun and dove in before her next breath, slipping under the icy waters. Brilliant!

Sooner or later, she realized, she would have to resurface.

Wayne went straight to the pile of sand masquerading as a sleeping young man. Below, in the spring lurked Evie, lungs about

to burst.

“Again,” she thought, “Am I trying to drown myself one more time?”

Easing to the surface she saw the huge man wiping sand from the sleeping boys face.

"I guess you're all right,” Wayne barked from the side of his mouth, not even glancing over at her.

For now she would just hug the steep side of the pool and slip away as he attended the young man.

"Ungh," she growled as deeply as she could. Evie stayed low, resting her arms on the side of the coral rocks, partially hiding

her face.

“He'll be all right,” Wayne mumbled. "And WHAT were YOU doing?" he demanded.

Flushed red, Evie lost all composure. Her facade was lost in a torrent of French and English invective.

"Me? ME? This young fool was trying to kill himself! Merd! I, I, ME? YOU!” Again, the arm up, her finger pointed, she

12

Pete Dooleysprung forward, standing on one of the coral outcroppings.

Evie was indignant, three quarters of her torso was out of the water. “Now,” she thought, “I no longer care. All of these

people are crazy, and I am not one of them, I am not even from here!” Her anger had fortified her. She was now a proud French

woman, grumbling, “not some cowering American sow, afraid to show her own body.”

The giant stood up, spun around, laughed, and began to walk away.

"Well, you take care of him sweetie, I have to get back to work.”

He extended his arm, the one holding the rescue equipment, to part the trees surrounding them. He began to wedge his way

through the underbrush.

Evie, holding the piece de resistance, using timing that only women posses, hands on hips, now stood at the side of the spring

pool.

"OK" "Uncle,” she yelled. Enunciating the uncle.

With a nanoseconds pause, twelve muscles on Wayne's huge shoulders constricted, two hundred seventy eight hairs on the

back of his neck stood up, while all the functional muscles making up the sphincter, contracted to their fullest.

Wayne was convinced she didn't notice, or hear the slightly audible, "daar" exhaled from under his tongue, through his teeth.

His eyes squinted shut, he told himself it was in preparation for the palm frond that had just slipped over the red polyethylene rescue

case the city had demanded he keep on sight. The frond whacked him under the nose, right on his upper lip. After a slight pause,

continuing his exit, he said, "You'll like it better here than on those itchy palm fronds at the edge of the garden.” The palmetto fronds

closed in behind him, one after another like Wild West saloon doors.

“Heh heh heh,” he chuckled, then he paused, asking himself; “What am I laughing about? Wait till Becky finds out about

this. Arrgh.”

At the side of the spring pool, one arm outstretched, the other on her hip, head shaking, bowing down, nonplussed, stood

Evie. She found nothing, she had no response, and there was nothing more to add. Her hand slowly swept back and forth at the end of

her stationary arm, as if she were reaching to stroke a cat.

The young man stirred, Evie turned and leaned over him. No one in this conclave of mad Americans seemed to worry about

clothing, the young man had proven he had no such need, so Evie dropped all masquerade of American modesty.

He was lying next to the pond, covered with sand. She cupped some water in her hand and began dripping it onto his

forehead. The dry sand on his face, followed the water streams revealing a tan face, sun bleached eyebrows and a wispy, almost white

mustache. “No doubt,” thought Evie, “formed from disregard rather than some fashion statement.” His gray green eyes slowly opened,

something she hadn't been allowed to enjoy from the distance among the “itchy palm fronds.”

13

Beach Town BoomWith a slight whisper, his neck muscles straining, he tried to lift his head. She couldn't discern what he said.

"Psh psht," Evie made the same sound her mother did when nursing her as a child. “Lay your head back.”

She leaned closer to hear what he was trying to say.

"Did, did you see that, that Wave?”

The absurdity and madness had reached a crescendo, Evies nerves were frayed, her lips pursed, her breath whistled out. No

words, nothing to say, just shock. Then it started; she began to laugh so deep and long that she couldn't catch her breath. Tears rolled

down her cheek. The simplicity, reality, and order of importance in the young mans existence had somehow transferred to her and

purified her. The essence of life and death, conquest and beauty, joi de vivre, was lying before her.

At first Adam was still. He was trying to evaluate through a mental fog slowly clearing as oxygen restarted his thinking

process. His throbbing brain sought a foothold.

“Who is this beauty and where did she come from? Did she see the wave or not? Is she nuts? God she is beautiful.”

He began laughing as well, his chest hurt but he couldn't stop. He asked her again, she just guffawed and bent over, one hand

over her mouth and one on his chest. “Oh,” he thought, “I better jump into the pond, little Willie is raising his head.”

He groaned, rolling to his side, he ached all over. He tumbled into the clear pool, trailing a cloud of tan sand. Evie leaned

back as he splashed into the water. It was a brilliant tactical maneuver. Adam had saved the embarrassment of having, appendage

interuptus, something that young men who spent much of their time, sans clothes, had to be constantly aware of.

Evie couldn't stop laughing. “What a day,” tears rolled down her face. The crash into the water surprised her with its

explosiveness. She had detected the motion in the young man’s lower quadrant.

Through years of spending time among school friends and acquaintances, one learns where to, and where not to,

look. Evie remembered the one time Fredrique Oliphant could not seem to control his frontal member. Evie used the trick her mother

taught her to use in such awkward situations. Walking past Fredrique she brusquely put her second finger behind her thumb, and

flicked the end with a ca-chunk, as if it were a fly on a table.

“Oungh,” Fredrique exhaled and bowed as if one of King Louis’ servants, taking three rapid steps back. Voila, com sa,

problem solved. Fredrique’s friend never visited again, or at least had the wherewithal to divert attention in the presence of Evie.

These memories just added to her hysterical laughter.

A strong grip on Evies wrist, she was pulled into the chilly waters again. This time internal warmth neutralized the waters icy

grip. In fact, things seemed downright warm. Adam swam to the waters edge and laboriously tried to hoist his aching body out of the

pond. Evie stared on at his zero fat content sinew. His motion resembled the movement of a great cat. Moaning he crouched and

moved gingerly into the sunlight and lay down on some soft grass. Evie noticed, deep in the garden, two beautiful palm trees with a

hammock strung between them.

14

Pete Dooley"Why don't you go and relax in the hammock, it will be much more comfortable.” Her suggestion, in a sweet motherly tone,

disguised her, anything but motherly, thoughts.

"No, that's Wayne's.” The reply was quick and definitive.

Evie chuckled to herself, “My God he does have at least some limitations.”

She pulled herself out of the pond and sat near him in the sunlight, her back almost touching his side. She stared at the

hammock and beautiful palms. Adam made an emergency rollover maneuver to lie on his stomach, trying to bury more than his

thoughts. He felt his only choice was to get his mind on something else, yet he didn't want to loose this intriguing birds interest. He

sprang up and bolted towards his sleeping area yelling over his shoulder.

"C'mon I want to show you around.”

Evie got up slowly, listening intently; she located the young madman's sound trail through the garden. She looked back, one

more time, at the hammock.

"Where are youuuuuu” laughing and giggling. Evie ran, jumping plants brushing bush and tree along the way.

Returning to the gallery, Wayne relayed the fantastic scenario of the recent emergency at the beach house. Alternately

laughing and pausing with furrowed brow he told his story.

Leaning against the wall, Lu overheard the tale and spun from one of the many places he cached himself to avoid work. He

made his decision. The thought of two nubile teenagers frolicking in the garden was too much to pass up. He was gone in a puff of

smoke; garden bound.

Evie came to a clearing and saw jungle boy’s primitive living quarters. She chuckled to herself, “What more could I expect.”

She was immediately spun around and taken to the ground with a large yell. Gently but firmly held, Evie and her captor rolled onto the

ground. A hot kiss; her breath escaped. She was touched where she was never touched before, blood rushed to her face, she was

burning all over. Evie grabbed on with her legs and arms and all her strength promising never to let go and yet...

"Wait, whoa please.” She felt the grip she felt she could never break free from, gently release her.

"S-sorry, I shouldn't have, I have just never met anyone like you, like me, I mean; how perfect,” "Where did you come

from?" She held him close but formed a bit of separation from this perfect fit and location.

Evie was assured of her womanliness though she had never actually been in any contact so intimate with anyone before. Sure,

kisses and caresses after dinner or a movie with the local boys but always Evie kept her distance and propriety. Now what had she

become? “A cave woman?” Ignoring her concerns she blurted out.

"I, I have never felt anything like this before, ever.” She tucked her head into his chest, embarrassed about using what

15

Beach Town Boomsounded like a 1950's movie script line.

"It is all perfect,” Adam lifted his head back stiffening his neck,

"First I saved you, and then you fell in love with me."

Her head shot back.

"You? You! I-,” She saw his face crack with a huge smile. He leaned forward and grabbed the back of her head and pressed

his lips to her again. The heat was so intense, she could feel beads of sweat rolling between her breasts, and every pore was opening.

Evie realized if she didn't escape she would surely-. She was loosing control. Shaking, Evie was tingling from head to toe. “But,” she

thought, “I must maintain some semblance of being a lady.”

She rolled away. He didn't resist.

The boys at home would grapple and grab, smothering and grunting, it was disgusting. This boy was different, he held but he

respected her wishes. She wanted to be near him but there was so much to consider. Other thoughts? Evie really didn't know all the

mechanics of a man and woman, and love making. She wondered to herself, "Would she be any good at it?

"Marry me, stay, don't go, be with me." Commands and demands rolled together as if one word, from Adam.

"Its Ok with Wayne, I mean; he didn't say anything. Didn't he say you have to take care of me?

“MERD; this little spy had been awake the whole time, what a fake!”

"Why You, You,” she lunged at him, fist raised, laughing inside.

Again, he spun her underneath him, pinning both her arms over her head. Adam looked down at her breasts and smiled. He

slowly looked up into her face. Evie was getting that total loss of control again. Her legs bent, were now folded over his back, she felt

herself closing in, holding him tightly against her.

“Have I lost my mind?” Evie had never been touched in this new place before. It was all so different from the grappling boys

at home. It somehow wasn’t relating to sister Marie's clinical sex education class. Mothers lecture had been cold and technical as well.

“Should it hurt? Should it feel so magnificent? Should I stop?”

"Oh, Oh, I must go, but, I, I will be back,” Evie gargled. She cleared her throat. "I have my things; I must think, I have never

done anything like this before.”

He released her. Evie's legs barely had the strength to lift her.

"I, I, I am sorry,” Adam mumbled.

"No, No my love. I will be back, I just have to think.” She spun and ran off in the direction of her safe area, to gather her

things, herself, and her wits.

On her way out of the garden, Evie passed near the palm trees and hammock. She saw someone lying in the hammock.

16

Pete Dooley“Uncle Wayne?” Smoke was rising in huge streams into the palm fronds. He lifted his head and spun to see her. It was not Uncle

Wayne. Evie slipped behind some palm fronds.

"Who are you? No one is supposed to be in that,” she blurted authoritatively, pointing to the hammock. Hoping to deflect

attention from her tentative situation.

"Oh! Oh Sorry; I didn't ask, is it yours?” his soft reply.

"No, No, not me, it, it’s Wayne's, No one is allowed," her facade was cracking.

"Well; here I am. No problem here.” His voice was soft, coaxing and assured.

"Seems the perfect place to relax the day away. I’m Sure your uncle won’t mind, but if you want me to; I will leave.”

"Yes; yes, I think you should.” No pretense of authority remained. What charge had she over this stranger, other than a few

seconds ago, she had promised another stranger, in this garden, that she would marry him, live in the woods, and be with him forever.

The calm confident man rolled out of the hammock and slowly disappeared in a puff and swirl of cigarette smoke. Alone,

Evie paused, looked around, reached out and gently ran her fingers over the weathered hemp cords. It was soft to the touch yet firm

and strong. Warm where the sun hit the strands and cool in the parts shaded by the huge palms. A puff of wind rattled through the

palm trees. The gust gently pushed her soft brown hair away from her face. A chill ran down her spine; she again looked around.

There was no one. Evie felt as if she was somewhere she shouldn’t be. What was the English word? Forbidden. Evie spun and hurried

away towards her little clearing.

Evie began sobbing softly to herself, the extremes of the day flooding over her. Dangers, inhibitions, and emotions, swirled in

her mind. She slowly parted the fronds and eased out of the magic garden. She picked up her soft warm summer dress, resolved to go

and get her things. It seems she would be staying at her uncle Wayne's place after all.

17

Beach Town Boom

“Always shoot the hand forward, as if it were a sword and you are prepared to disembowel

whomever you are introduced to. Grip the hand firmly, show your teeth, a slight twist one

jerk and you are in command.”

Ralph Brank

THE FALL

The Ospreys view from above looks down on the bustling gallery and booming town. The now married young couple is

busying themselves in the garden, on the beach, in the beach house; exploring internal and external environs.

Below, Greg Reed is phoning in from a construction site; look closer, a furrowed brow. He was under considerable pressure

from the bank. Reed has gambled on using down payments to acquire land, leveraging that properties value, to get loans on projected

sales of condominium units. More people equal more cash, creating a larger infrastructure, spawning more taxes.

Taxes at work? Botchis and Bolus resting at their desks in air-conditioned comfort in the new headquarters within the palace

of Zandor. Across the street in the window of the gallery is Beki with furrowed brow as well. The new tax code evaluates their

property at an astronomical value, endangering the very center of creation.

She is looking at an offer from Greg Reed Developers Inc. The proposal is for a portion of their compound bordering the

north side of their property, commonly referred to as the Garden. Wayne had always liked Reed and was very happy for his growth

and success. Reed was happy as well, for himself. It was a new era of turmoil and decisions.

18

Pete DooleyWayne owned the compound, as it was known as, since, forever. Since forever; is what the locals had always considered

enough of a legal document to maintain ownership. Wayne wasn't sure if he ever had the deeds for the compound. He didn't want to

part with anything, but the pressure of the tax burden forced a change. Reeds offer to Wayne was more than they needed. Inflated land

values were the one bonus of all the growth.

Wayne was happy Greg Reed was the buyer, "Greg is old school, we go way back,” Wayne was thinking out loud while

reading the proposal. "He assured me everything would be tastefully done. He said the look would be maintained.” Wayne wasn't sure

if he was speaking out loud or just thinking these thoughts. He and Mike head off to the garden. Beki had mentioned it would be best

if he went and explained things personally to the kids, their designation for the young lovers.

The kid’s soul mission had become procreation, to the square root of three. Beki had mentioned to the kids, "You know,

someday life is going to rare up it's ugly head and bite you two on the ass.”

Evie was now married to the exploding bright golden young man in the ceremony performed on the deck of the beach house.

Her mother had sent her wedding dress, it had been her mothers wedding dress, as it was her mothers, and so on. Evie assured her

future husband on the special day that; though she had a dress on, she in reality had nothing on underneath it at all. Evie couldn't

figure out how she had maintained her virginity throughout the weeks they spent together swimming, running, planting and generally

helping uncle and Mme. Bek.

Since the wedding the two had an enjoyably painful, tender and slow learning process. The newlyweds had perfected the

interpersonal melding of souls and body parts. The kids became one in rapid successful tries; in the garden, in the beach house, on the

beach house roof, in Mark’s painting room. Mark tried to maintain his daily schedule, snoring like a creaky weather vane, daily on the

deck. The two chose Mark’s studio more judiciously for their adjoinings. Adam swore something bit him on the ass.

Young Evie felt more and more confident in the garden as time passed. She soon referred to it as, our garden. In the

petulance of youth she often chuckled, "My garden" when sending correspondence back to the old maids from school back in France.

Through their early learning and feeling each other out, both soon graduated into a mutual ecstatic adventure, from one end

of the compound to the other, on they went. Evie had one searing repetitive memory, she always harkened back to the hammock in the

sun. Now they had a special way in which to celebrate.

With men, Evie soon realized that with the proper tone and tilt of the head, nearly anything could be asked. Armed with this

new power and knowledge she found her love barely needed any childlike coquettish coaxing. As she went, he came. It was now time

to test the limits of her new found leadership skills.

19

Beach Town BoomEvie chose a perfectly beautiful day. Adam came in from the ocean, salty, sun drenched and content. Evie ran past Adam as

fast as she could into the underbrush. Up the sloping hill charging to ground walked on only once before. Her breathing was deep, her

chest heaving, and a thumping heartbeat filled her ears. “Was it the run? Was it some fear of the forbidden? Exhilarating!” The

tingling became tension; sweat ran down the center of her back, eyes wide open, kneecaps shaking.

She spun around. Adam broke through the palms. His eyes and mouth were wide open. His eyes scanned her, head to toe.

She glared back. Evie’s head was down, jaw set, a wild animal ready to pounce. Crouched forward, her chest was rising and falling

though her breathing was now shallow. She threw back her head and sprung backward through the air. It was if she were some acrobat

in Le Cirque de Soliel that missed the crew below prepared to catch her. Arms and legs spread she landed across the hammock. The

force of the landing initiated a large swinging arc. On the return pendulum, her hair flew over her face. She arched her body to

increase the swinging motion. On the third arc, stretching to the fullest extent of her being, she pointed her toes and touched Adams

chest, for an instant.

"You, shou-!”

The statement couldn't be finished it stuck in his throat. Adam’s breath rushed from his lungs. Hunched foreword he

resembled a huge cat on his hind legs ready to pounce. Evie accelerated even more. She then pulled her legs in to a squatting position

and began to giggle madly. Her heels were pulled in until they touched her derriere. Knees wide apart she threw her arms across the

hammock. She looked at Adam and saw the same strange animal look on his face that was consuming her.

Crack! The ancient ropes pulled tight. Adam landed on top of her. Evie squealed. He growled like some caveman having

captured his prey after a long chase.

The interspersing of positions both thought they had mastered; were animal in nature piled together and recompiled

suspended in the time and space of the hammocks swing. Yelps and howls; picking each other up, throwing each other down in a

violent frenzy of love making.

Adam paused his primate thrash and scrambled up the larger of the two huge coconut palms. He began throwing the fruit to

the ground. Evie laughing demonically scurried up the other and began throwing coconuts over at Adam. Her ammunition expended

she jumped down onto the hammock in a bouncing splay legged frontal assault towards her husband. He was now hooting and

grunting like some great baboon. Adam climbed a little higher and grabbed one of the top most fronds of the tree. He launched down;

the frond bent yet held, tossing him even higher into the air. He landed behind Evie, trampolining her momentarily into the air. He

dove to the spot he estimated she would land.

In a second’s time, Adams force, young wife landing on top of him, produced a creaking cry out from the trees. Something

had to give. The hammock unraveled and sprung; string to string, depositing the two writhing animals on the ground, temporarily

quieting them. The silent pause was followed by screams of laughter. They coupled together under the fronds, among sprung strings in

20

Pete Dooleya muffling kiss.

Click!

They stopped. The crack and clump was the telltale sound of visitors to the garden. They scurried and climbed out from

under the mess as if two rats caught in the watchman's light. Ownership of the garden? They scurried away in retreat. The two were

engulfed in the new discomfort of guilt.

Wayne and Michael paused and surveyed the scene in silence. The hammock was shredded, the noble trees stripped of their

fruit, fronds ripped from the crown of the trees. The beautiful long fronds that provided shade and undulating beauty were strewn

about the garden floor. They were tangled with the once firm, now formless, jumble of hemp.

"ADAM" bellowed Wayne.

"ADAM" The sound boomed across the garden.

"Lets hide!” gasped Evie. “He will think it was someone else.”

They crouched lower in the underbrush.

"Whua, What have we done!” hissed Adam. "What were we thinking, this will kill Wayne.” Adam ducked even lower, as if it

would help avoid the sound of Wayne's booming voice.

Emboldened by their escape, with a moment to calculate, Evie turned to Adam. "Go talk to him,” she whispered in a

confident lowered tone.

Evie was on all fours, behind a small bush.

"He won't do anything to you,” she emphasized.

“After all it is, our garden.”

Adam hadn't seen this side of his sweet love biscuit. Her once pouting lovely round lips were curled back and thin, her

forehead furrowed, her eyes glaring. She bobbed her head down in a jerking demonstrative manner.

"Go on, go!”

He sat back shaking his head in disbelief. “Oh yeah,” he thought, “Go to a guy who's hands are as big as my head and who

has given me everything I have.”

He mumbled sarcastically, more to himself than his bride, "Yeah I'll just tell him.”

He rose slowly, not rising to his full height. Perhaps he never would again. “Maybe;” Adam thought, “I better put something

on. This is going to be weird.”

Adam turned and scurried back to their little area. Hands shaking, he pulled on his polyester pants and draped a tropical shirt

21

Beach Town Boomover his slumping shoulders. His green tourist sans-a-belt slacks had been worn once, as an inside joke. His only shirt, a large billowy

print shirt had two huge parrots imprinted on it’s front. A clothing company who licensed the name of a singer, who glorified the

lifestyle of being drunk and selling drugs, produced it. He buttoned the faux coconut shell buttons over his depressurized chest. Adam

had worn this ensemble to his wedding. He had worn it more as a joke than as some fashion statement. After all, his fashion was no

fashion at all.

The shock and guilt he had never felt before tightened around his temple and muddled his hearing. He could see his feet and

the greenery around him, but the colors retreated to a faded grayish green. He never noticed his feet before. Never concerned with

gravity before, this new self-inflicted increase in atmospheric pressure forced a stoop to his shoulders. Adam could hear each step as

he neared the scene of the fall.

Wayne and Michael were in the sunlight. Adam was in the shade. He sidled up behind a large pine tree. He was now devoid

of his golden aura. Adam sullenly took one step to the side allowing himself to be seen. A click beneath his foot, it might have been a

twig, but Adam in his new self-consumption felt it might be a joint creaking. Adam never had to take stock of any physical anomalies

before. He labored to swallow; he had to think out each motor skill needed to move a mere inch. The sunlight, his life's sustenance,

now made him squint. The heat seared his forearm and left hand, the only part of him not in the dark shadow of the tree.

Wayne turned slowly from the destruction and softly, incredulously asked, "Were you hiding from me?”

He looked into Adams core. There was no hiding left, none, no safe zone inside or out.

"Yes,” Adam mumbled.

"What is with all these clothes?” Wayne said softly, sadly.

"I, I,” Adam could think of nothing to say.

In a fit of unnatural cowardice he blurted out.

"Evie; she, she." It felt as if someone else was producing the words, the thoughts, the convoluted reasoning.

“Maybe,” Adam connived “I can hide behind the sweetness.”

Employing this angle, Adam might save himself. Toss the young wench into the sacrificial pit before the one who had given

him so much and asked so little. Evie could melt anyone, he calculated, including the great one.

Adam felt weak and revolted at this new creature he had become. His situation introduced him to desperation and cowardice,

tools he never had sharpened or used before, from lack of need. Adam could barely stand, let alone deflect the piercing stare of

Wayne. He gave Wayne a quick nod of the head. He hoped Wayne would read his body language, translated: “ That little nymph; who

could resist her schemes.”

Wayne and Adam rarely had to speak. Communication took the form of a look, a chuckle, a roll of the eyes. Wayne would

22

Pete Dooleygive Adam looks when his little flesh colored flower would jounce past them, warmed by the sun on the deck. Rapidly translated; I

hope you are enjoying this bonus show and gift to the fullest of your manly abilities. With a chuckle, Adam would not even have to

verbally reply. A slight grin, a duck of the chin, a proud look at the sun glinting off of her soft curves would be his only response.

Often times Adam would run after her, grab her up, and bolt to the garden. Not long after, Wayne would disappear into the beach

house, chuckling and yelling "Hey Bek, its hot out here. Want to go to the hammock and have a nap?"

NOT WORKING!"

Alarm bells were sounding in Adams head; the last torpedo had been fired. The destroyer had him in its range; dive, dive!

Alas, Adam was now in shallow waters. The concept of making a stand about, our garden, was never brought into play.

The words cracked out of Wayne’s mouth.

"Boy; you are going to learn something about life, and good and evil now.”

Adam straightened as if the words had formed a whip that snapped across his back. Wayne turned slowly and walked away

through the garden. Michael stayed behind; he looked at Adam in anger and disgust.

"You know, it would be best if you just packed your things and left.”

Adam had nothing to add, nothing to imply, let alone anything to say.

He sulked slowly away. Behind him, Mike was cracking out a dictum with nearly the same force as Wayne.

"Now you are going to have to work for a living, you are down in the dirt. Go have some babies. See what the real world is

like, without him always looking out for you.”

Adam moved faster away from the truth, trying to escape the thoughts and worries that never dragged their corpse like

visages through his simple thought patterns before. He came to their area.

His wife; wearing a sun dress he didn't even realize she owned, had her long hair pulled up, in a bun, twirled on the top of her

head. She was talking to someone. Evie had a bag, held by both hands in front of her, the same one in which she brought all her

belongings the day she joined him in the garden. Speaking animatedly, nodding, rocking back and forth on her heels and toes she spun

and smiled broadly at Adam as he approached.

"I was just talking to Greg here,” she motioned over her shoulder, "And it seems he is getting the garden. He has a place we

can stay temporarily, and he can give you a job as a landscaper on his projects.”

It was an incredible run on of thoughts and words. Evie was absolutely chipper. “Oh” thought Adam sarcastically to himself,

“with the wave of a hand everything had been solved.” Evie was speaking as if she had everything well thought out, as if they had

some great, long term plan, and they succeeded. Yippee! Voila! They had ruined everything they had going for themselves. Adam

noticed behind Greg there was a huge macho vehicle called a Hummer. He had plowed his way into the garden.

23

Beach Town Boom

Adam had known Greg for years. They had surfed together and hung out on Wayne's deck, in the days when Greg was just a

carpenter and had more time. Adam noticed the speckles of white in Reed’s hair, though Greg was still a young man. He remembered

Beki saying to Wayne, "Reed is having a bit of a problem with the snow.” Adam chuckled; some of it must have gotten stuck in his

hair.

Reed sized Adam up. He looked ten years younger, though they both were the same age. Lu had told Reed about Adam and

this beauty, but he had been too busy on the party circuit to ever come and check it out. Greg had been working twelve hour days, he

had been grinding his way to the top, wherever that was; and this lazy little prick had all the goods. Reed had come to clear the little

losers off the land. He was stunned when he came upon this sweet beauty, sobbing, leaning against their love shack (right about the

location for his new septic tank). He froze. He didn't own the property yet. There were still some technicalities about finding deeds

that was something else that would just slow Reed down. Now he was getting a soft spot for these lovebirds. “Dammit!”

In an instant of calculation, something Reed had perfected in negotiation with sleaze bags much older and far longer dunned

in the arts of manipulation, he calculated all the angles and the tone needed to appease this overwhelming racing in his chest. He never

experienced this exhilaration, even with the best of the Colombian cocaine he had vacuumed into his nasal passages.

Reed had all the painted, shaky fingered, synthetic beauties he wanted or ever needed. He thought of it as a game. No matter

how coy these targets acted, if he just kept talking and watching for reactions, before long, he would find their hot button. Most often

it would be; "Wanna come to my place for a toot?” These marks were in the usual shooting ranges, the bars, and the parties. His latest

fishing hole had become the go-getter, thrice divorced, cig-puffing swags in the realty offices. Reeds brain was like a tape machine on

fast-forward, filled with a garbled swirl of thoughts, shwrbiletryunghnomabeahthatwont-god look at her. Be nice, always the best

approach. Use the old lady shakedown. What was that word? Charming.

Reed had become an artesian, a master of separating things from their owners. In an instant this young girl had become

priority one. Innocence and purity, these types considered as virtues, were the easiest of set ups. Next, and he didn't have to give it

much thought, the wedge. An angle would appear, sooner or later to send this jungle boy packing and let him reel in this little prize.

"Adam!" Reed used the aaaaa part in sing songy float among the scales, ending with the dam, dropping off like he might be

saying aww. The tone was similar to the; "Oh sorry,” he had perfected, seeing kids writhing on the ground after he slammed them in

the sides of their knees.

Greg played linebacker for the Crescent Beach High Minutemen. Coach often repeated; "Football is just like life; run over

people, ram it down their throats; and you win.”

Greg sucked at football, but he had mastered the art of tangling up the faster guys, and shooting at key joints to get the better

players out of the game.

24

Pete Dooley"Reed, just get out there and help us win,” was the code phrase the coach would use when desperate times called for

desperate measures.

"How ya been?" "Long time.” Reed’s hand shot out stiff and sharp like a sword, pointed at Adams stomach. I'm going to

crush this punks knuckles, he thought in a flash.

"I was just talking to your lovely wife and it seems you have run into a bit of rough sailing.” This word play should fit in with

these nature dolts, Reed quickly presumed. Greg owned a boat, or the bank did, it enhanced the look of his four-bedroom three-bath

coliseum in Waterway Estates. He would own the home in only thirty more years.

Reed had never been sailing. The yacht on a rope, as his neighbors called it, was a key component in the harder to bust cases.

"Come on, let’s do a toot in the cabin.” “Hoist the main sail,” he would chuckle to himself piloting some tart into the main cabin.

Greg never saw fit to actually hoist the anchor. Reed had a little flag. Similar to the ones the brave tournament fishermen use.

The flags were a signal seen far and wide used to claim victory for other brave tournament fishermen salute and revel at.

They had on them silk-screened silhouettes of once great fluorescent marlins and sailfish, beauties of the sea. Hooked, strangled,

gored in their sides, and pulled to the side of their boats, to be beaten to death with clubs (“To put them out of their misery.”) The little

caricatures, drawn on the flags, portray the fish as if they were having a great time as well.

Reed’s silhouette was of a maiden, laying on her belly, legs crossed in the air behind her, smiling, with a martini glass in her

clutches. He would hoist it after the victims disembarked, to impress horny housewives on the cul de sac. A classy move, he always

thought, waiting till they leave.

"Man I need you, what perfect timing, things are going crazy for me, I need landscaper on projects, you always could make

anything grow anywhere.” Reed was flowing.

"I have a little place down near the river, it's in the woods and on the water just like you are used to. You could fix it up real

nice while you are getting yourself together." All this was rolling out of Reed like a flood.

“What has come over me?" Reed thought.

Reed had come to the garden to survey his real estate acquisition. Lu; Reed’s man on the inside at Wayne's place, had tried at

one time to relate a story about a beautiful girl he had seen in the garden. Whatever the point Lu was trying to make at the time was

lost in a mental fog. It was during one of Reed and Lu’s cocaine binge/transactions. Reed’s chemical disorientation, coupled with Lu’s

drug disjointed sentences, never registered any lucid cognition, until now. “Wait till you see the little honey Adam’s got a hold of!”

Lu’s long forgotten observation was now repeating itself in Reed’s brain.

Reed was confused and trying to evaluate. “In a few short seconds this chick has me hiring Adam, and I’m putting them up?

Something good better come from this.” Reed calculated.

Adam shot a glance at Evie. She was alternately on her toes and on her heels. Her eyes were wide open, her mouth open, in

25

Beach Town Boommarvel at how great their fortune had been. What angel had sent this noble knight? Her lips formed the awe-invoked intonation

"sheyaw", sort of shucks-yea-haw.

Sheyaw was an expression Adam had taught her, meaning: What good has befallen me, I don't deserve this but yeah its here

so I will revel in it in fact I will raise my hand up into the midnight sky. He had told her this, during a moments respite under the stars.

Adam had blurted out, Sheyaw! While she and he were intertwined in loves ultimate tensioning release.

“What does this sheyaw mean?” she asked softly, while lying on her side next to him. Adam had after all, promised her he

would teach her to speak American. In a fit of creative zing, he hatched the above definition with a chuckle in his heart. The, “hand up

into the midnight sky” part he stole from a verse in the Van Morrison song playing at the split second that they were of one flesh.

Inspiration for the quote had come as young wife and man; were locked in lovers frenzied crescendo of alternate, together and

separation, crashing and holding, releasing and gripping, in loves victory. All the while in the background Van was belting " The

waaaay that yu a ou aoung lovers do do do do do doobydodo.”

Adam was proud of himself. All this had rolled off his tongue, as he slipped into a warm slumber in her arms. He

had taken one last, dozy look into her eyes, before his sealed for the night. Her sweet soft lips were moving as she memorized it, " shee

yaw, sheeyaw, sh e yaw". He told himself he would tell her he made it up in the morning. Adam never remembered the retraction. As a

matter of fact it thrilled Adam to no end when Evie would toss sheyaw around in all and any circumstances she deemed worth raising

her hand up into the midnight sky for. Sheyaw was something he thought they would keep only to themselves. The hairs on his chest,

below his polyester shirt, tingled, seeing her silently mouthing sheeeyaw, while looking doe eyed into Greg Reeds blabbering maw.

The sunlight was shining through Evies light cotton sundress. With no great difficulty, one could make out, every detail of

her breasts as she moved about in her near perfect youthful body. Adam studied the swirl of motion. Her undulating breasts, as she

gestured and prattled on about their incredible luck, her soft round derriere, alternately vacuuforming and disappearing magically

within the sun dress, with every puff of wind or rapid bolt of activity. Stooping to pick up some memento, the loose fitting top of her

dress fell away, exposing her left breast (one of Adams favorites). It didn't phase the busy little beauty in the least.

Evie walked over to Reeds Hummer, she stood with her legs apart staring at the both of them. The sun behind her, in its last

swipes of red evening glow, created a golden red aura around her. It formed an anatomically correct outline of her perfect legs joined

together with what one might mistake as a soft pillowy heart between her thighs. Hands on both hips, one holding her trousseau, she

chirped. "Come on boys!"

Adam, mesmerized by her beauty, had forgotten about Reeds hand; poked out in front of him, thumb in the air, four fingers

pointing at the ground. Reed had somehow lost track of time as well. Adam could have sworn he saw Reed flash an incredulous look

26

Pete Dooleyat the swirl of feminine totality, innocently displayed in all matter of motion before them. Adam momentarily had a thought like he

never had before. Heat and coolness, formed a numbing thought. He would grab Reeds thumb; spinning it downward, while driving

his heal into Reed’s throat, as he hurtled him to the ground.

“What! What has come over me!” he thought to himself, “Who am I?” He reached out slowly and grabbed Reeds hand.

Reed was in shock and numb. Four thousand two hundred seventy six alternating and deviant thoughts created a torrent

within his mind. Thoughts, that if voiced out loud, might sound similar to a long stuffed toilet finally released after a furious plunging.

Reed’s small over worked heart felt as if it had moved up to the base of his throat.

Damn! His hand had gone limp through the shock of the scene played out before him. Greg Reed had forgotten the manly

squeezing technique he had perfected after reading numerous self-help and betterment books. He had read nearly all the, win at any

cost; books produced by unemployed self help gurus.

Eat Your Co-workers Dead Children by Ralph Brank and

Small Steps Over People by some swirly haired real estate tycoon in New York.

Both tomes made it ultimately clear, the initial firm handclasp was the first step to placing anyone eventually under foot.

Reeds warm, soft, dead fish hand was grabbed by the jungle boy and firmly yanked up and down twice. Reeds elbow locked and his

shoulder almost touched his earlobe.

Adam had never seen Evie so ecstatic and self assured as she plopped into the passenger seat. Reed cranked up the power

plant. Evie sat sideways and to her left. Her hands were together as if in prayer, wedged between her thighs. She pulled her elbows in

and scrunched her shoulders together as if to bodily portray, isn’t this nice? Isn't this cozy? Isn't everything just wonderful? The damn

loose fitting low cut top, do to the wedging of her fem mounds, allowed the topmost rims of her nipples to peek over the hem. In any

event the sheer see-through material left little to the imagination.

Adam hissed in her ear, "We have to talk!" He then leaned back as he slid into the back seat shoving numerous levels,

squares and plum bobs to the side.

Evie whipped her head around to face Adam with a huge smile, then back, eyes darting quickly in the direction of Reed.

Reed was momentarily consumed with backing his tree crusher out of the garden, concerned with not scratching too much of the black

paint off (won't look good at the club).

"I have to talk to you, too," she whispered back. She smiled quickly at Reed as he pulled his head back in, avoiding a

vengeful tree limb. He shot a quick smile at her, then a look back at Adam, as he rejuiced his smile. The contraption was bouncing up

and down, back and forth in a violent motion, settling down only when it reached the center of A1A. Adam noticed Evie had folded

her arms over her chest to at least save some form of propriety.

He thought, “At least she is keeping them from slapping her in the face.”

27

Beach Town BoomAdam had forty-six alternately jealous, angry, and or self pitying scenarios racing through his brain, tightening his chest and

causing a throbbing in his temples. All of these feelings were absolutely brand new to him. Concerns now had full reign over his

formerly peaceful green pastures of thought. “If she has anything going on with this guy. What was that look? She just likes his car. I

don't have anything. Do I want to work for this creep? What is she going to tell me? Is it over?” Just to catalogue some of the most

prominent concerns.

It was dusk when they creak-cranked and revved into the small clearing near the Indian River. They parked next to a

Mallaluca tree. Mallalucas were brought in by land developers years before to suck up the water and expose more land to sell. The

cabin was in a stand of pepper trees, another artificial insemination into what was deemed, an unacceptable environment by the rapists

whoring Florida in its recent past. The small wooden building was a few yards from the riverbank. Adam had been an ocean person

his entire life, he learned to enjoy the bounty the river had to offer but never had a zeal for its brackish waters. Some plastic bottles

and a random beer can accentuated the moldy rot smell of the brown undulating waters sloshing onto the sand and grass shore.

“Man! "I have to get right with the big guy,” thought Adam.

Evie blurted, "Oh it's so cute. I love it.”

Boom; the door was shoved open and slammed into the sheet rock wall behind it. Evie tossed her small bag onto the table in

the center of the room.

"Hey, I have to get going. Make yourselves at home," purred Reed.

Greg wanted to find Lu, have a snort and evaluate this new scenario. He was having difficulty clearing his head, picturing

himself and the young beauty in his hunting cabin.

"Wai- wait Greg, we can't pay for this, I mean this is your place,” Adam protested. He moved towards the hissing, thundering

war transport. Greg waved his hand side to side out of the window.

"No no; I am never here, I only use it in the fall, for some hunting and fishing, really, stay as long as you like; you guys have

had a rough day. Adam, I'll be by sometime tomorrow and we can talk about a job.” Reed smiled.

Greg felt incredibly good within himself; he genuinely enjoyed the strong warm feeling of having done something kind for

someone. Not the tense feeling he gets when making contributions at the charity benefits. Reed recalled the “ donations”, making a

great show about tossing a five hundred dollar check into some pot, or bidding loudly during some concocted auction. His donations,

only made him worry about how and when he might get his money back. His mom would be proud though; all she ever did was

sacrifice. His chin stuck out, his jaw tightened; he thought about what a creep his father was. Running off with his secretary when

Greg was just fifteen.

“Bastard, left this great woman and me behind with nothing.” Reed let out a growl from deep inside. “I need to find a woman

28

Pete Dooleylike her.” His thoughts kept returning to the beauty now in his hunting cabin, sleeping, safe and secure.

Adam felt genuine remorse for all his malicious thoughts. He was now thankful there was a safe and warm place for them to

reevaluate their newfound destitution.

"Adam, come here and sit down," Evie said firmly.

Normally, Adam would be barely able to keep his composure or his hands off Evie, whenever she would try and have some

serious conversation. Communication, to Adam, meant some sort of wrestling match, punctuated with a writhing sweat fest, on any, or

the nearest, objects able to support their crenshendic festivity. The events of the day had so disrupted his idyllic lifestyle, that he was

now resolved to hear the worst.

Adam now accepted that guys like Reed, who he never gave much thought to, in his small surfing world, could excel within

their own environment. Adam had always looked down on Reed. When surfing, Reed would bob his head up and down paddling for

waves, his back arched, toes pointed back like some Olympic diver. More irritating was Reed’s penchant for grunting as he stood up

on his board. His surfing style consisted of jerking his upper torso up and down, while his surfboard slowly sloshed side to side,

eventually to a stop. The wave would then move right past him. Adam had always thought Reed was a geek. No one would be in the

water for miles around yet he would paddle out grunting and nodding to within inches of Adam. He would show up rarely, if ever, yet

each time tries to imply some sort of a challenge. Reed would always paddle for the same wave as Adam, grunting, bobbing, and

kicking his pointed feet. Adam would take a few deep strokes, hop up and drive a turn in whichever direction he saw fit. Reeds neck

and back muscles, assisted in growth by injections of monkey hormones, strained to get him in a position to catch a wave. He then

would begin his hercum jerkum, sixties bugaloo, surfing non-style. Adam recalled one time, Reed paddled over the back of his legs

during one of these sessions. That was the last time either had talked, until today.

Self absorbed with the events of the day, still in a quandary as to what this little tart of a wife had in store for him, Adam

braced for the worst.

Evie plopped down in front of Adam, looking into his eyes, holding gently on to both of his hands.

"I know this isn't the best time but I have to tell you this.” She made eye contact.

“First, I am very sorry about your friend Wayne. I will do everything in my power to make things right with him.”

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor below him. He was sitting on the edge of Reeds bed. Evie was beautiful, healthy

and lovely as ever.

“Oh boy I guess this is it,” thought Adam.

29

Beach Town BoomAn Osprey glides past the seventh floor window. On bright shiny clean sheets and a new bed lies Evie. Guttural growls and

grunts are coming from her very core; she is focusing all her energies on the activity and pressures between her legs. Her breath is

deep, “ahh, ahh, ahh,” her head shoots back, and the sweat runs down from below her neck in between her breasts. “Oh! Oh! Oh!” she

cries and slumps half asleep on to the bed, covered with her own perspiration.

The midwife hands Adam the second boy to enter the world. He and his brother, are a product of Adam and Evie’s mutual

orgasmic interplay. Twelve hours of labor and nine months of cute but laborious waddling about, they have increased by the square

root of two.

30

Pete Dooley

Idyllicide: Man’s ability to, stumble upon any perfect setting, enjoy it, soon exploit it, and eventually

destroy it.

Mark

Progress

The Town is consumed with growth development and the offal that comes with such environmental consumption. More cars,

more stoplights, BARS, and along with all that, a disquieting lack of control.

Our two lovers; in a small home built for one, are now a family of four. Locally worried about day to day bills and globally

worried about the swill and plastic pollution washing up on the shore almost daily. Evie, ever the energetic one, has made a lovely

little cottage out of the one time hunting shack. Adam is content slaving away within the realm of his first love, the land. He beautifies

and makes things grow, keeping life going in spite of Greg Reeds scorched earth construction technique.

Reed religiously follows the method he learned from other construction moguls: Level all the land, greenery, oaks, and

palmettos, down to the sand. Next in idyllic real estate portfolio layouts, throw in the occasional palm tree or key shrub to accentuate

the property lines. Later, pump rivers of water from the aquifer to maintain the thirsty plants, imported from, Africa, New England,

and Brazil. Mulch effusively.

Great air conditioner pumps running, the new transplants stay indoors, temperatures set matching the cold environs they

escaped from. A perfect system, thought Reed. Alas, some imperfections and bumps had to be dealt with along the way. One such

bump; many of the sharing and loving new comers felt there were far too many other new comers following their exodus. Density

limits and zoning.

31

Beach Town BoomThe original developer, Henry Flagler, ran a railroad scar down the nose of Florida. His next thought was of ways to populate

his fanciful creations of cities and towns. He established small festering wounds, towns and cities, along the stitching of his railroad

line, enticing settlers to populate his vision of utopia and personal wealth. The Native Americans weren’t thrilled to see the influx of

white settlers but they came anyway. Give the white man a foothold, soon all the regulations, property values, and rules change.

Reed’s generation of transplants now wanted to slow or stop new construction.

In the early days, communication with the outside world had the Florida crackers and pioneers commerce happy. There was

farmland to sell off to developers, swamps to pump out, Mallaluca trees and Brazilian Pepper trees to plant. By the late seventies, vast

natural coastal areas had become filled with concrete, over policed and over regulated. People began to rebel. Residents began to

realize they had lost the Real Florida. The problem had become, well, people. A new Florida evolved: Get them here, empty their

pockets and get them out. Tourism. The state motto may soon be changed to resemble the quote on the statue of liberty. Send us your

creditworthy; your healthy, to our theming shores, and then leave.

The quandary for the Reeds of the world; how do you separate geeks from their money, if de geeking the market flow of new

suckers is somehow regulated or stopped. There was a frenzy to be the last newcomer to Florida. One might hear, in a North Jersey

Accent, “Why don’t youse guys go back were youse came from.” How do you build (scorched earth policy) if the old chumps in the

stapled together Tyvec homes with the sprinklers spewing are repulsed at the latecomers? What about the new marks, sighing au

tropico at the real Florida? They stand sweating in front of over-priced plots of land, figuring how much it will cost to clear the land

of the native slash pines and ugly little palmettos, along with the wild Mallalucas, Brazilian peppers, and Kudzu vines. They are ready

to buy.

All Reed’s heroes were the Republican Party greats. Fellows who could sound the hue and cry in great booming voices; no

more big government! (No regulation). They always had some war hero or folksy stiff who could sound and look like he was for the

little guy. In truth these characters were inserted to give business moguls free reign. Greg feared the old dunderheads in city hall might

get some do-gooder in office and sully the feeding trough. Who could he get to run for office? Only one person came to mind, the

lovely little French girl.

Evie had been outspoken about the deterioration of the environment. She had picketed with the local homeowners over

sewage dumped into the river and ocean. “She is smart as a whip,” thought Reed.

Reed had given Evie the position of office manager. With that move, things at G. Reed Development had taken on an air of

professionalism. “I’ll back her to run for office,” thought Reed, “She thinks I am a real prince.” Reed became a little more wound up,

recollecting the time in his office, Evie had let slip, “I love Adam, but I wish he had it more together like you do, Greg.” With an air of

32

Pete Dooleynobility, Reed hummed, “Oh Evie, the landscaper can do things I could never dream of doing.” “Yard ape,” he thought. Reed was

happy he remembered to use third party reference when referring to potential competition. He learned that technique in:

“Who Was That Guy Again”

Or: how to have your competitors riding the trash truck in five easy steps.

By Krez Shymanski.

Shymanski was serving five years for an unrelated transgression, in the Federal institution at Eglin Air force base. Reed had

always used Shymanski’s five steps to making adversaries disappear. Step one: Always refer to the subject in the third party, or; by his

title, never use familiarity.

Reed knew he could appeal to Evie’s do-gooder militancy; she had politics in her blood. Greg had done some snooping

around and checked the little babes background. After all, she had seemed to drop out of the sky. Her father had been cleared of some

sort of building development scandal in the French government, yet he had chosen to retire. Reed wondered if they had a Republican

party in France. So, Evie is a natural to politics, he assured himself, admiring her even more. Reed’s concept of politics ran parallel to

most fine young Republican precepts: Get in office by any means possible, deregulate and plunder. This was a simple and beautiful,

tried and true system.

“Evie I need your help, WE need your help.” He had called her into his office. She breezed in with her little pad. Reed studied

the young businesswoman as She handily twirled an office chair, dropping it with only a knees separation from the front of his

cluttered desk. He was mesmerized by the natural flow of motion. Reed contrasted the young woman filling his office with a lilac

aroma, to his first vision of the near naked girl in the garden. Dark blue pumps covered the once bare feet; a tan skirt and barely visible

panty line contained the once barely covered soft round bottom. A belt cinched tight, gathered the sleeveless white blouse, buttoned to

high for Reeds taste. A slight trace of lace was visible from the device subduing the once dancing breasts of youth. “ She got it all back

after dropping those kids,” thought Reed, always the romantic.

“I am afraid things are getting out of hand and the other developers are going to ruin our town. I know you care about all this

and I would do it myself but I just don’t have the time. Everyone loves you for all the help you have been to them and I will do

everything in my power to help you get in and become mayor,” Reed looked closely into her eyes. Evie was on the edge of her chair

focused her eyes wide open. Reed could evaluate any target in his sights. He chuckled to himself, “Its in her blood.”

“Yes, yes those bastards, they are pigs!” hissed the little fanatic.

“When she gets worked up she sounds like one of those foreign films , Reed thought to himself. Reeds mind wandered; sooner or later

in those movies, they always had some steamy love scene, on the steps, or in the kitchen on a table, with bread loaves and cabbage

33

Beach Town Boomfalling on the floor.

It didn’t take much. Evie was elected. Reed had private meetings with other developers and local bankers. He funded the

sprout and tofu tet a tet with the environmental nut cases. He even had some of his competitors pitch in to have a dinner at the local

condominium owners meeting. It was a breeze.

In front the studio, Wayne is cleaning up. He casually hoses down two drifter thugs in the studio’s carissa hedge, sleeping off

their nights tanking up. A new bar had opened up next to the studio, beer cans and urine came as an added bonus. Threats and howls,

bright eyed, bushy tailed, and the bums were on their way. It had become part of the morning regimen. These two didn’t depart with

the normal thunder of the motorcycle clatter and roar; they sidled off, chains clinking, down towards the beach. A safe distance away,

middle finger extended, “We’ll be back,” growled the fatter of the two.

“Ah, wanna-bikers,” chuckled Wayne.

Wayne shook his head at the changes over the last few years. Adam was gone. They never had time to even talk anymore.

Evie, the little nature doll, was now a business woman and mayor of the town. Mark, who used to be out all the time, meandering

about, finding things to draw, drawing from things seen, got out less and less. Mark’s health seemed to deteriorate with the decline of

the areas natural beauty. The garden survived, no longer as lively without the energy of Adam, a sacrifice to the tax machine. The

garden was still beautiful and peaceful as ever. Wayne promised himself he would wander its trails at lunch.

Le mayor, flustered and hurried, looked every bit the young politico/professional. Hair pulled back in le bun, nylon stockings

(she had proudly pointed out with Frankish pride, produced by Dupont, that is DU Pont, to Adam). She was arrayed in nun-like shoes

with the short, lifted heels, and up to her neck went the blue, just-above-the-knees-dress. Not much makeup.

Evies father had tossed out some French saying to Adam while marveling at his daughter, during their one and only tense

meeting. Adam could never remember the exact French words, but Mssr. Vie, engulfed by the natural beauty of the beach house deck,

lubricated by three glasses of cognac, had translated it simply, roughly; “soap and water”. He continued to explain, “You see, many

women need so much paint, paste and rouge to look their best, but the truly beautiful ones need only soap and water.”

“I have to hurry,” said Evie, wiping some cheerios from the chin of one of the boys. She quickly tapped the other on the head,

rounded the table and pecked Adam on the top of the forehead. “I have a meeting with Greg about some land thing, and then I have to

bolt to city hall.

“Bolt,” thought Adam to himself, another Americanism, more leaning towards the hippy or surfer sect, used to refer to a rapid

departure. Adam was proud of his little definition, but had mixed feelings. It was another terminology, even if it was not known as

34

Pete Dooleysuch to Evie that had brought smiles to his face over the years. Here was the mayor quipping, “bolt.” Evie doled out the expression in

any and all situations, referring to any departure as let’s bolt. Adam hoped she didn’t throw it out around the blue hair, belt-over-the-

abdomen, set too often. The quick pang in the upper rib cage and quickening of breath at the mere mention of Reed’s name had

become more acute and more common over the years. Not an anomaly one could run to the doctor with, but cause for concern; or was

concern the cause.

“What's Reed up to now?” shot Adam.

They had always tripped over this log in their brief passing chats, chats that had become less and less common over the last

few years.

“What?” Evie whipped her head around; she was half way out the door. She knew not to drop Reeds name in their

conversations. Adam had some thing about Greg she never could quite put her finger on. “He is working something out for the garden,

you will see, it will be wonderful.” Evie emphasized key words garden and wonderful hoping to get Adam on a more positive train of

thought. Adam was stuck on the words Greg and Reed.

Reed had proffered some money as a deposit for the garden property, but he was unable to do anything with it for years, do to

the lack of paper work on the land. In Evie’s position she was now able to power through paper work with the state, getting things on

track. The money Reed would pay would go directly to the city, helping all her electorate. It was a win-win situation in her new

political jargon. Greg had assured her he would make it more beautiful than ever before. As a bonus, Adam would be back in his old

haunts, merrily creating and growing things hopefully regaining ties, long severed with old friends.

They had never talked about the debacle in the garden. Evie had carried out a self-imposed sentence. She silently convicted

herself years earlier as the instigator of Wayne and Adam’s clash and resulting banishment from the beloved garden. Evie bided her

time waiting for an opportunity to rectify the damage done. She was finally going to make it right. She was tingling, thorax to

abdomen, spine to ribcage. “Now that's a real Voila!” she chuckled to herself using Adam’s form of fractured French English. The

terminology was so common in the conversations they used to have. Sheyah, and, that's a real voila, were retired from their new

divergent worlds. Saddened by these thoughts she resolved to grab a bottle of wine and get those boys to bed early and hear her love

shout sheyah one more time. “Tonight's the night,” she thought, “I’ll give him a real Voila.” Evie began giggling; she backed her

black, Reed Development, Land Rover out of the yard onto the highway. She drove past the garden, barely able to contain herself.

“I’m losing her,” thought Adam.

“In fact, she’s already gone,” he mumbled to himself out loud.

“C’mon boys I want to show you where daddy grew up.” Adam gathered the two water rats together. They had no use for

35

Beach Town Boomclothes yet, “wonder where they got that?” Adam cracked to himself. “I will show them what it is really like to be a beach rat.”

Frightened at first about the invasion of children to his and Evie’s little world. Adam now was constantly amazed at how

exponentially his love had grown to compensate for these two scrambling darting energy balls, always referred to as, the boys.

“Exponentially; now there is a word,” thought Adam. Evie had chided Adam to get his basic schooling done. Jungle boy was

surprised; he enjoyed the night courses at the local college immensely. Evie seemed proud of him. She had ripped through college and

graduated at the top of her class. Reed’s office had paid for it.

Reed, lying on his side, opened one eye. The tapping and banging on the cabin door had slowly brought him back to port, so

to speak. The grog was clearing from his eyes; he could barely make out the tousled form next to him. It was all coming back; she is

the young teller from the bank. He had bumped into her at the Waves End bar, the latest, hip watering hole at the end of the causeway.

Bang bang, tap tap tap, It could only be Lu. He gets his jollies making people uncomfortable.

“Is today the day? Is it on?” blurted Lu. He looked over Reeds shoulder at the supine, all too young girl, half exposed from

under the sheets. Reeds hair was sticking up in the air, he had to pee, he stood naked in the doorway. The taste in his mouth was a

mixture of coagulated saliva, Schnapps, and cherry flavored lipstick. “How old is that kid,” flashed Reed. He nonchalantly let Cipher

get a full ogling at his latest trophy.

“Oh yeah, yeah, Jeez, God, I got to get going,” he muttered.

“Hey hun,” Reed whipped around, “better get up, we have to get to work, don’t we.”

“Ooh; “Where are we?” The young thing leaned up in the cabin bed that filled the entire front of the vessel. “What time is

it?”

Lu had gotten his eye full; he leaned back quickly so as not to be seen, pressing himself against the cabin bulkhead. His

tongue flicked in and out two times in rapid succession, a big smile crossed his face. “That’s old mayor Murkee’s youngest daughter,”

Lu could hardly contain his glee. A cornucopia of fallen thoughts had dropped in his lap. Now he had something on Reed, and it

seems there is a new blossom on the trail to weedship. The door to the cabin closed quickly as the young girl scooted up on all fours,

slapping it shut, displaying her youthful physiognomy en toto. Reed popped the door back open as fast as it closed.

“Hey baby, I got to get going, make yourself at home, showers up stairs, have some breakfast, I am real sorry, but I have to

get going, now.”

Jasmine Murkee always had her eye on Mr. Reed. He had it so together, and there was a bit of adventure in an older man. She

had always heard Mr. Reed’s name growing up in the mayor’s house. Her lame old man was always ranting on about; “That creep

Reed,” and “Do you know what Reed pulled off today.” On and ON he would grump to her mother, who would sit there shaking her

36

Pete Dooleyhead. Jasmine was convinced the old codger was just jealous over Mr. Reed’s incredible success.

Mr. Reed was so successful that quite often checks would come in the bank with no money to cover them. On these

occasions, Mr. Reed would make eye contact and in the most honest of voices grab Jasmine’s hand and whisper, “Pay that one. I am

getting a huge check in later today.” Jasmine always pulled it off for him. A few times though, “the next day,” became a week or

longer. Amazing the power a little bank worker actually has, she chuckled to herself. Jasmine calculated and vectored time coordinates

for weeks, trying to casually bump into Mr. Reed after work.

“How did this all come about,” Jasmine asked herself, she looked around the inside of the boat cabin, “It was only one

drink!” Jasmine couldn’t even remember leaving the bar, let alone the moment she had envisioned being magical and lovely, a

moment she had only fully carried out in her diary. Jasmine would just have to explain everything to Mr. Reed. She was gathering up

her dress and shoes when it hit her.

“My God, I never even made it home last night! Mr. Reed is first though,” the mental fog clearing. “We will sit down and I

will explain that I never ever do this, in fact I never!” Jasmine cut her thoughts short. “I better leave that part out, I don’t want him to

think I’m some little girl.”

Reed moved towards her. Jas readied for a big morning hug. Reed grabbed her by the shoulders and gently spun her, still

holding her clothing, towards the ladder to the deck. A huge beam of sunlight made all vision inoperable. She stopped and quickly

slipped her dress over her head, the rest she held in one hand. Jasmine hopping on one foot, put on her low heel shoes, trying not too

look to goofy and immature in so doing.

“Mr. Reed must have something so important, I really shouldn’t hang him up,” she thought. “God I am such a loser; I’ll just

catch up with him later.”

“Where will you be later?” blurted Jasmine.

“Honey, I will be so busy today...maybe I will give you a call later.”

“Ok, Ok,” she whispered in a sigh. “I have to be getting going, too.”

He helped her up the ladder; in fact Reed boosted her by gently pushing against her rear end.

“Hey!” she giggled.

On the deck, Reed shuttled her off onto the dock, ushering her towards the side gate.

“I’ll drop you off,” he said guiding her along even faster now.

“I guess I don’t have time to shower and have some breakfast after all,” thought Jas, “I am really screwing this guys day up.”

She climbed in his gurgling, huge jeep thingy and slipped a brush she found in the glove box through her hair.

“Oh, just a minute baby.” Reed slammed the door and hustled across the yard, whacking the high wooden gate behind him.

37

Beach Town Boom“Wow,” thought Jasmine, “he called me baby.”

Sweat nodules formed on Reeds brow as he hoisted the little, triangular flag to the top of the mast.

Lu prided himself at being at the wrong place at the wrong time. He was euphoric as he weaved slowly back and forth down

the cul de sac on the beach cruiser bike he had casually picked up from Reed’s neighbor’s yard. The stream of smoke from the

cigarette in his mouth swept back over his shoulders with each swerving arc. That must look pretty cool he thought. “Oh where to go

first,” he chuckled to himself, “oh, where to go.”

Lu’s hours were not iron clad at the studio. He had assured himself that at the studio, his talents were so vast Wayne could

never let him go. In his personal reality he was convinced; though Wayne had been always open with him and taught him from the

beginning, he possessed all the real talent, Wayne just got all the credit. He further reflected as he peddled and coasted along

intermittently; “That Reed, he is a piece of work.” In Reed, Lu had always found someone he could bounce and refract the most

convoluted and despicable concepts enjoying an ever-downward spiral. Reed was a real fun guy. “I better get moving.” he calculated.

It was a bit of a ride on a bike, to the garden.

He swerved past the studio and gallery it was early. He nodded at the to bleary-eyed schmeks, staring through blood-shot

eyes from the studio hedge. He looked up at the tacky city hall and its gaudy facade. The smoke, puff by puff, weaved over his

shoulder, like some gray cape.

Evie had everything in order. She was so proud and confident she would do a great job, proving to Greg Reed that he had

picked the right person to save the town and better the environment. Reed shoved the mayor’s door open in a hurry, it was before

hours and only a few custodial types were at city hall.

“Boy, he looks haggard,” thought Evie, “what a sacrifice he has made, now he has no one to run his office and he has so

many things to do. This will perk him up.”

“Greg,” she cooed, sustaining the “eeeeeg” as she rounded her desk to reach him. The pert and cute mayor gave Reed a firm

hug.

“I really had hoped we could present you with this deed in some sort of ceremony, but I know you have so many things going

on.” She turned and stretched onto her desk, grabbing the document and handed it to him. Evie reached over with her right hand to

shake his, as if it were a graduation ceremony.

Graduation was something Reed had barely accomplished, and only then with the help of his football coach pressuring

38

Pete Dooleynumerous teachers at the end of his schooling. He looked at the document in her hand. He chuckled to himself, “ Here I am again, just

scraping by, baggin the goods.”

Evie smelled wonderful, Reed realized, he just smelled. Reed had imagined grabbing Evie and tossing her onto the huge desk

in a smothering kiss. The aroma from his mouth and the additional fumes wafting from his arm pits caused him to take a step back.

Reed had worn himself out on the young tart as she lay placidly in the cabin of his “yacht on a rope”. Lu was right, those

little pills in a drink, pretty much gave you free reign. “God I need to get a little toot from him, I’m losing my edge,” thought Reed.

Evie felt things were a little off kilter and chose not to peck Greg on the cheek, after all, that might be a little too French to

do in public office in America.

Grabbing the deed, Reed spun and hurried towards the huge double doors.

“Thanks baby,” he blurted over his shoulder.

“Ouf” he mumbled to himself. Water formed in his bloodshot eyes he squinted so hard. His head went down and he hunched

his shoulders. Muttering, “Sorry, sorry, I mean Ms. Mayor.” The drugs and drink had not fully worn off.

Evie, shocked at Reed’s performance, leaned back against her desk with her hands folded in front of her, lips partially apart,

eyes wide open. After a few seconds she turned and slowly walked behind her desk looking out the huge window. Reed was already

below, in front of the building running and jumping into his black vehicle. Evie, with all the Mayoral aplomb she could muster, shook

her head slowly and chuckled.

“Wow, he called me baby.”

In a charge like the D-day invasion, the dozer, already off the trailer, had plowed into the green forest. A piece of paper held

high, had been waved over Reed’s head, as if to start some great race. There was a momentary pause only long enough for Reed to

climb up on the side of the growling monster. He had to yell over the idling diesel. “You know what to do.” He hopped down, stepped

over a few rebellious halved sticks jutting up at peculiar angles, and found a safer path down a tread gouge, out to his idling sports

utility vehicle.

The power and sound, creep and squeak, of a bulldozer is an awesome thing. It is more intense and violent sounding at

certain times of day; midmorning is best, less people around. There is a momentary gag and resurge of a massive engine straining to

topple ancient trees, a sickening hiss and pop of great limbs succumbing to iron and hydraulics, in a way years of storms and rain

never could. The squeaking and clanking of the tractor treads overcome the sounds of scurrying screeching animals.

Chin out, jaunty pace, Reed cacked briefly on the diesel fumes as he sidled in behind the wheel. Things were working like

clockwork. He employed an old trick he had used numerous times before; the unwritten nudge and wink deal. It was the only way to

one up the tree huggers and the queer little laws they had burdened business people with. It worked like this: Get on site at the right

39

Beach Town Boomtime (preferably when most people have gone to work) clear the land quickly and thoroughly, because they force you to maintain a

certain amount of natural vegetation on your property. Smash everything to bits, play dumb, and pay the $150.00 fine.

A well-trained dozer man can clear multiple acres before the old ladies and tree fairies get any action from the desk jockeys

in city hall. By the time they lodge their complaint, it is far and away too late. Eventually the dogs of bureaucracy are cut loose and the

local appointee in charge of such triviality has to locate and stumble on-to the site in question. Most often by this time there is only

sand and a pile of mulch left to evaluate.

Reed backed out on to the highway, popped it into a much too low gear for flat, Florida highways, winding the engine to a

high squeal. His concentration was more on the next phase of his conquest. Yeah, The Garden, that sounds good, I’ll just use that

name for the development. Through years of experience Reed knew it is best to be incommunicado when these mistakes happen. It

was time for a little sleep.

Adam and the boys were giggling, shoving each other, aimlessly meandering in the general direction of the ocean, on their

way up from the river. Adam saw smoke over the trees. A rush of thoughts ripped through his mind. “God I hope nothing’s on fire;

nobody would be home now to stop it.” The three were at the highway when Adam detected the distinct moldy oily scent of diesel

fuel. “What is Wayne doing?” yelled Adam out loud. Just beyond the first line of greenery on the property there was NOTHING,

nothing but sunlight. On torn, convulsed, gouged sand, one little dark area was expanding, resembling blood gushing from a wound.

By location, Adam could calculate it was the spring, valiantly trying to keep its fluids flowing through the sand now piled over it. The

monster was taking two last, sideways slashes, followed by a downward gaff at the great centerpiece coconut palms. The scene was

similar to the class bully grabbing a smaller kid by the back of the neck and shoving his head into the sand.

“Ga.. wha.. They ca..” thoughts came faster than words updating Adams intake. He spun around and grabbed the boys with

one move and carried them to the edge of the dead and dying lumber pile.

“Stay Here!” The kid’s eyes were wide open watching the great steel monster pirouetting and digging around. The scene was

awe inspiring to the boys, shocked, they had never seen father in this state. The boys, on only a few occasions, had heard their father

yell at anyone or anything. The two were frozen in place. This was all too cool, so much action to take in. Moving might have them

miss something.

Adam ran in the direction of what looked like Custer’s last stand. “Gaar,” he stumbled, almost falling. He looked up,

halfway there, a great sideways swing of the bucket laid the second of the great palms on its side. “Nooooo!” Adam had his hand up

but there was no response from the huge, yellow, belching beast. He tripped again. Regaining his balance, on hands, knees and feet, he

scrambled up the only remaining elevated land. He now had only one small adolescent palm tree at his back. The grag gragging of the

pulsating diesel was belching out plumes of grayish black filth. The bucket, its digging claws facing down, paused momentarily inches

40

Pete Dooleyover Adams head. Adam had placed himself, like a championship-boxing referee, in a unique and dangerous position. The bulldozer

resembled some huffing hulk still ready to reign down additional blows on a defenseless adversary. Adam, with his right hand around

the trunk of the young tree, his left in the air, signaled, “enough, enough!” referee stops fight.

In an instant the massive machine backed up and as if in an old cowboy movie, it seemed to doff its hat by lowering its

bucket. A cloud of dust formed, its engine growling in reverse. The dozer rolled the two largest palms under its steel claw dragging

them off toward the log pile. The beast backed away at maximum acceleration, looking as if it had taken a shrinking pill. It stopped at

the edge of the highway where its trailer was waiting and chugged up its ramp. A few short adjustments, coughs and pops, one last

grohoung of a rev, pop pop ding; it settled and stopped, at rest on its trailer. The driver; in one slithering motion, rolled out of the seat

and landed on the ground on both feet in a puff of dust. There was a bike leaning against the trailer. Hopping on one leg, two or three

times, he was under way, legs spread searching for pedals. He began to weave long curving turns slowly down A1A. A plume of

smoke swirled over his shoulders, like some see-through, gray cape, alternately disappearing and reappearing with each self-contented

puff.

“Man I’m going to have to ditch this bike before I get into town,” thought Lu.

Adam was alone on a scarred sand pile resembling the surface of the moon. The sand crammed over the artesian well began

forming an ever widening amebic black wound, a black spot in the moguls and trenches now defining the land scrape. Adam scanned

towards the sea; it was in a sad, brown, seaweed state. Humble little rollers were sneaking up, taking a peek at the devastation and then

retreating, recoiling. The dune was gone and all the vegetation that formed a barrier to the oceans surges. To his right, he could see

Wayne slowly making his way towards him. Wayne’s steps and motion were unhindered by the rise and fall of the moonscape. His

two boys were standing with Bek on the side walkway of the beach house. She had her arms down over each boy’s chest, holding

them in place, holding them to her in some silent reverie. Sand was in the corner of Adams eyes, grinding sand between his back

teeth, not the clingy removable tan sand of the beach. This grit was the soil that turned black when moist; the foundation that

maintained just enough nutrients to produce the centuries of growth. The food for the thin veil of green that generated more growth

and drew to it small creatures of land and air that ate, dropped seed, fertilized, burrowed, rotted, died only to begin the cycle again.

The cycle continued in barely visible surges of growth, tested strengthened and surviving storm, drought, winds, and rain. Things

would be different now. Along came the ones capable of devastation within this regeneration. Along came the end beings as explained

in Chuck Darwin's Theory of Evolution. These superior beings, who were capable of off setting the delicate entropic machine to suit

their needs, always, found the means to an end.

“Wayne, I...” Adam didn’t have anything to say. He was so deflated. No comment, excuse, or greeting was appropriate.

41

Beach Town BoomAdam was on the last remaining elevation of the scored and flattened land, the young tree scratching and tapping gently on his head

and back. He was at eye level with Wayne for a rare, first time. Wayne in a deep, somber tone, softly said, “Mark just had a stroke. I

think this just about killed him.”

Wayne didn’t look to the left or right or gesture, his eyes locked staring into Adams soul. It was a gift from the big man. He

redirected Adam's thoughts from anger and shock, toward mercy and concern. Accusations and threats, told-you-so’s, and rants were

neatly tucked away. First was concern for the small circle of compatriots, an ever-diminishing circle, confronted with crises of this

day.

“Where is he? Is he all right?” Adam headed towards Mark’s studio, now fully visible, above and behind the beach house.

“He’s not there, he’ll be all right, in time. It was all a bit much for him.” Wayne gently reached out, as Adam was moving

past, placing his hand over Adams chest, all forward motion ended.

“Wh.. What?” a pleading look into Wayne’s face.

“Man,” was all Wayne said.

Mankind? Questioned Adam to himself; “Is he just making a simplistic statement about the days developments?” Profound

and simple, one word covered all the days happenings.

Wayne's reassuring touch seemed to restart Adams heart. They walked side by side towards the beach house, angling towards

Mark’s place, trudging past the massive pile of tree carcasses in a Dantesque tangle. Adam stopped in his tracks, standing erect for the

first time since confronting the dozer.

“Your trees! Lets get your trees!” Adam lit up like a light.

The two palms were lying side by side. The retreating monster, like some bear dragging a victim off towards its lair, had

rolled the two palms under its lowered claw. The rolling motion unnaturally removed all fronds during the demonic rotation and

grinding. The hasty, purposeful exit of the dozer didn’t leave time to pile their remains onto the heap.

Wayne reached down with both arms; not slowing his pace, not looking forward or back, and rolled the two lifeless forms up

under his arms. Adam had meant; lets go get a forklift, or a hoist, or crane. He never thought Wayne would consider this approach, no

matter how strong he seemed to be. The trees, an hour ago, were busy flowing and feeding, drinking from the land, gorging on

nutrients. They were without fronds but still filled with a trunk full of water. Giant root balls at the very fat ends, once shielded by the

ground came almost up to Adams chest. Adam couldn’t speak, or wouldn’t, Wayne always seemed to know ahead of time what he

was going to do, or what was going to happen. Adam grunted and grabbed some of the protruding hairs. He knew there would be no

forward motion but he didn't want to pour any more negativity on Wayne. He would let him make that call.

From his position, Adam was amazed to see Wayne even get the trunks under his massive arms. The circumference of the

trees filled the circle of his armpit to his waist, only the tops of his fingers touched his hips on either side. “Next is going to be the cold

42

Pete Dooleystop,” thought Adam. At a time like this one doesn’t say much, if anything. Pride and brotherhood rule the situation.

There was not even a slowing of the determined pace. Adam observed the burying of Wayne’s toes and forefoot, inflation of

the muscular shoulders. Adam had placed himself between the two great root balls. In a startling second, both lifted and began moving

towards the beach house hugged closely to Wayno's sides. The two massive root systems rocked back and forth with each step;

opening and closing, meshing and separating, gaining on Adam from behind.

Adam broke down the alternating vectors and scenarios, all the while jumping over dirt piles, gouges, and footsteps, trying to

get traction in the sand. “Do I jump up and try to hurdle the palms?” He weighed the possibly of landing on one and halting Wayne’s

momentum, embarrassing himself even more. Question two: “Do I bolt forward, lock step behind Wayne knowing that my arms would

only seem to be resting on the top of the logs?” Both thoughts were put aside.

A remnant of a former plant or tree, a vertical flexible stick, snapped back from under Wayne's trudging march and cracked

across the front of Adams left foot, pitching him forward and to the ground. The root balls, as chance would have it, were on their

outward spreading pendulum. Adam jumped back up and took a quick couple of brushes down his sandy front, as if to assure anyone

watching, that he had fully intended to do that. Off pace he bustled forward, stumbling side to side, slipping into the deep trenches left

behind Wayne and his two recuees. By the time Adam caught up to the swirling root tendrils, Wayne had reached the grassy clearing

below Mark’s window. He deposited the two with a coinciding release, creating one loud thump as the two trees indented slightly into

the ground. Wayne continued forward three paces and stopped an arms length from the poles supporting Mark’s studio. He leaned

forward and put his head down as a great sigh heaved through his upper back. His head was not visible to Adam in its bowed state, his

huge arm supporting his entire forward lean.

Beki, the Wiz, Wayne’s informal code of familiarity, last names or variations of friend’s last names became names.

The Wiz; always to the point, the straight word, put her arm around Wayne’s waist, leaned forward, and ducked under his

arm. She simply stated, “Things grow back.” Two taps on Wayne’s lower back. ”Go see Mark.” She took a quick look at Adam.

Adam now standing with the two boys, whom were alternately leaning and holding his legs seeking reassuring contact. To

Adam; Beki’s look clearly, wordlessly, conveyed; you too kid.

The ambulance attendants were, surprisingly, bringing Mark home while the shocked friends were contemplating their next

move. It was fruitless trying to keep an old bird like Mark in some pasty white, sanitized hospital room. The evaluation was short, the

doctors surrendered, he was going home. Wayne first, Adam following, slowly shuffled up the stairs behind the struggling ambulance

drivers.

Adam thought back on all the stories Mark used to come up with and how he told them. Anyone could be in the middle of a

discussion about nuclear physics or the latest political scandal and Mark would clear his throat and interject in his raspy voice,

43

Beach Town Boom“Reminds me when I was in Tegulsegapa; the people are so small, it’s freaky, funny shoes too.” Always disjointed thought, similar to

the subjects of his paintings. There would always be a long pause, usually wrapping up with Mark’s raspy laugh, “Funny little shoes.”

A man of the sea, Mark was always an artist at heart. Twenty of his years he spent in the navy, circling the globe. Still a

young man, retiring from the service, he took his talents and worked his way to the top of one of the most respected advertising

agencies in the mid west. A wife, a kid, a house in the burbs. The mad visions within had to seek their natural end, the canvas. The

paintings were similar to his thoughts; water falling upward on a pale blue sky, a fish swimming by on land, next to a pirate with a

wooden stump of a leg holding a flag upside down with, simper finality written across it. The art venture couldn’t maintain the house

in the heartland nor the heart within. Mark painted himself a highway away from hearth and home, away from the nine to five mid

west, rainbows up ahead, seabirds flying, blue seas and sunny days. Empty stomachs, roads fraught with potholes, the crow like caws

of critics views, headlong Mark cast himself adrift in the stormy sea of the artists life. After years, he found safe haven, landfall in the

small island of acceptance, anchored in Wayne’s gallery. Time to record the journey. Pieces of interior Mexico, fat old tourist ladies,

old sea captains and beautiful wispy maidens running naked through woods.

“Hey, wait a minute,” chuckled Adam to himself now in Mark’s inner sanctum for the first time in ages. Adam scanned the

room. Beautiful Spanish princesses, island beauties, all splashed colorfully in any form of undress. One drawing caught his attention, a

longhaired wispy beauty, breasts and body all one beautiful tan color. “Ah,” thought Adam, “I always felt Mark didn’t have the time

of day for us; but glad to see we were in his thoughts.”

Mark was sleeping in his aforementioned cot of muse. Snoring peacefully, he had one hand, his left, curled on his chest.

“Thank God” thought Adam, “at least it isn’t his drawing hand.” Adam continued to look around; he saw an entire series of drawings,

similar to ancient bible lithographs pinned to the wall. They were in Mark’s unique watercolor washes and brilliant colors. Her

Gutenberg could have only wished he had options for these depictions rather the early pen and ink etchings of early bible lithographs.

The second drawing was of a snake and the same beautiful girl standing before two coconut trees. The final in the series was a golden

glowing being, pointing the way out a garden, to the two hapless beings. The beautiful girl, and a boy made of sand, with two parrots

on his chest.

Adam was silently studying the pieces with an increasingly heavy heart. Out of the window next to the three small paintings,

he could see the desolation. He turned to see Wayne leaning over his good friend. Behind the two he could see an enormous artistic

undertaking, a canvas that filled most of the wall. A dark piece; huge waves, a ship spilling its passengers into a sea of ships towing

flags that would have doom or pay back or disruption for names. There was a crab on the bottom of the sea waving a flag that read

destruction. Dinosaur-like birds were flying about, an all girl motown group was singing on a cloud. Like all of Mark’s works, it was

all too much to understand in one sitting. His art was never really to be understood, rather a series of statements and readings, blended

in colors with creatures of mystery. Adam could make out one thing; in the nearest of corners still only hinted in sketch form, was a

44

Pete Dooleysmall house near the shore of a great and angry sea. The house was familiar as well. Mark had been depicting and feeling the storm of

life all around us, and the deterioration within. Adam wondered which came first, the anticipation or the reality, with the events of this

day.

On her way home at the end of her busy day; Evie, who still wanted to cook at least one meal in proper French fashion, made

it a point to be home, no matter how demanding the day. It was to be with the boys; Adam had now been affectionately grouped

within this classification.

She saw Greg Reed’s large vehicle parked by the side of the road at a completely unfamiliar and foreign setting. Evie saw the

wide clearing with its mountain of dead and dying vegetation, piled like some huge pyre. She slammed on the brakes and swerved to a

stop in the middle of the road. Regaining some feelings she idled over to where Reed was standing, the back of her company car still

in the highway. “What happened?” she yelled. Evie burst out of her car door; slamming it so hard she slipped and almost fell. Her lips

peeled tight, eyes glaring, she stormed towards Reed.

A shocked look on his face, in his best, hey buddy, sorry, are you OK, voice, Reed blurted, “I .. I don’t know, Adam was in

charge of all this, he is the landscaper, I thought he would be here somewhere.” Bingo, just the right thing to say. Reed could read the

body english perfectly, even if it was with French mannerisms.

Evie spewed a river of French invective. She hadn’t used the mother tongue in years, priding herself in even thinking

American. She was now out of control. Reed looked over the property, shaking his head slowly, as if stunned by the desolation. He

was going to mouth, why, why, but he knew that would be pushing the envelope.

Evie stomped back and forth, dirty sand puffing up in the evening air, she put her hand over her mouth and shook her head.

She marched /stomped /growled; back to her car, never acknowledging Reed. He stood there; not realizing his mouth was hanging

open. “Man she is pissed,” he thought, “I’ll wait to talk to her in the morning.”

Evie slammed the black chariot into reverse and whipped around towards their little abode. “How could Adam, I know he

was always jealous of Greg-” She was employing stunted and random calls to reason. The sheer animosity of the act astounded Evie.

She slammed on the brakes inches from the front door, crumbling a coral landscape stone protecting one of Adam’s many growing

things. Evie slammed the car door and steamed into the living quarters. No lights on, no one home. She dropped into a chair, too angry

to cry, absolutely disheartened about Adams actions.

As time passed by, a self-imposed wall of silence was being built, tic-by-tic of the clock. An hour or so later, still simmering

in darkness, she detected a click and rattle of the door handle. The three dusty, dirty, bedraggled fellows scattered into the dark room.

Adam flicked on the light and saw Evie squinting in the corner. Adam thought of turning the light back off, seeing it was disturbing

Evie.

45

Beach Town Boom “Terrible day; Mark had a stroke.” Adam sighed.

“No!” yelled Evie. Land dirt and trees seemed inconsequential to health and life.

“How is he?” she demanded, jumping up.

Evie bolted towards the door; she had to go see Mark.

The last time she had spoken to Mark was during a faux campaign party among only the closest of friends. Milling about on

the beach house deck, Mark yelled far and wide that, “It would be a cold day in hell” when he would vote for some, “tree hugging,

conservative, liberal, French chick.”

“You could never know if he was serious,” chuckled Evie. If Mark voted for the other guy she would still love him.

Mark then laughed and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her into his lap, blaring out “I have an addendum for you,

baby.” She laughed, blanched, and gave him a light slap on his white, gray and black speckled beard. She kissed him on the forehead.

Evie remembered staying by his side half the night, enthralled by his stories of worlds she could only dream of ever seeing.

“Oh dear I hope he is all right,” she whispered to no one in particular.

Adam, seeing her reaction to the news of Mark, thought, “It is probably best I don’t tell her about the garden.” A heart racing,

malevolent thought coursed through his chest to between his temples. “She was probably in on it with him anyway.”

Thoughts filled Evie’s cranium as she finished a late meal for Adam and the boys. “Men, I am surrounded by men. I am

disgusted with men.”

Disheartened, she cataloged: Her father never could explain what had happened to his career and position. Wayne, why

couldn’t he understand that, a strong tax base must feed growth, development and betterment. Why hadn’t Wayne maintained the

proper documentation over the years and prepared better for the future. Mark, strong, filled with knowledge and art, he should be

around for years. Yet he seemed to get weaker and more infirm in spite of the town taking on its new persona of growth and managed

beauty. Adam, her everything, seemed to fail and flounder. Time was passing him by, petty, vicious and increasingly distant.

There seemed to be only one, Greg Reed, strong, considerate, well to do, always looking towards the future, bettering himself

and all those around him. There is hope.

Wayne leveraged the huge palm trunks into the back of his old, pick-up truck, flattening the old girl onto her axles. He

chugged and sputtered off towards the studio, moving at a slow and determined pace. He had never carved green wood before; he had

always made it a point to seek out the already dead, drier, much easier wood to carve. Dead and dying wood was much more prevalent

during these golden days of development. These two trees had special status to Wayne; he would begin carving now and carve until

finished.

46

Pete Dooley

According To Tikis

A sandy trail into the studio, beneath one small light stood Wayne. He propped up his beloved trees and took a short-lived

contemplative stare. With a deep sigh, he lifted his tools, and plunged into his task, chips flying to the sound of the hack and whack of

chisel’s fury. Wayne needn’t lean back and contemplate when it came to artful vision. In an instant, he could see a bird within a twist

of driftwood or a Hawaiian warrior within a piece of cedar. Now, a root ball, the great medusa-like vines constituting a palm trees

roots, would be a massive head of hair.

The great piece; Sentry, would be carved from the first and larger palm tree of the two, the tree Wayne had long ago named

Good and Evil. Vigilance was needed in these times. The carving would have huge eyes to see the good and evil around it. Sentry

would have a massive smile of arrogant confidence, broad enough to be a greeting to the peaceful friend, easily interpreted as a scowl

to ward off the evildoer. The tree was stood inverted, its immense ball of root vine formed a mound of dreadlocks exploding out and

cascading down from the top of the head. Sentry’s enormous size should be warning enough.

No tikis had been painted before; they were always in a natural state, occasionally, a little torching of the wood to enhance

eye shading or hollow a cheek. To Wayne, the wood spoke for itself, the lines within the natural hues and textures of wood, formed at

times a wizened look, at other times, in the hardwoods, a smooth dark countenance. The paint used would be bold and brilliant, bright

greens, oranges and blues. See me and be warned! Hours of time were spent shaving, cutting, chopping, and painting. Wayne was

finally satisfied with the Sentry.

47

Beach Town BoomWith no wasted motion, Wayne spun and hoisted the other of the pair. Slightly smaller, this tree’s root ball had been ground

down from the violent encounter. Wayne trimmed the sides and found the balance on the tree he had called Life. His artistic vision

took over. Through Sentry's root ball, over Wayne's shoulder, one could see the new carving taking form. The fierceness subsided in

the strokes; a more peaceful face is coming to life.

Sentry’s eyes seemed to widen, peering over the creators shoulder, as things progress. The yellowish light from the work

lamp sheds a glow on the surrounding tikis, collectibles, and yet unfinished carvings. All seem to be leaning in, to see the one that the

creator has focused his entire being on. An old wooden retired cigar store Indian chief, one of Wayne's collectibles, stares down from

the rafters. Across from the chief; another carving from Wayne’s private collection, an Indian maiden covered with dust, peers down.

On the floor facing up, two smiling tikis, big grins, young hoodlums. These two lie in wait, as if prepared to comment on any passing

item of interest for ridicule. Further to the back of the shop, are many tall and thin, wide or round, barely visible faces. Diverse

personalities carved in wood, grimacing, laughing or in stoic arrogance, all eyes strain to see the newest creation.

Wayne carved a band across the forehead of the piece, lifted brows of a happy face, eyes squinting from the pair of round

cheeks, uplifted by a huge toothy grin. The sound of mallet to chisel resembled the sound of a machine gun, as the artist’s feelings

flowed from heart to wood. It could be the light, all the same, Sentry’s eyes seem to narrow or widen with every new addition to the

beautiful sculpture. A perfect chin, a long beautiful neck sweeping into shoulders, long arms, wrapping to her back. Every chop and

shave increased the joyful playful expression. Sentry’s eyes widened, The Chief seemed to lean forward, Pocahontas, the maiden,

leaned back and looked out of the side of her eyes. The wise guys nearby on the floor looked over at the frenzied artist, then back and

forth at each other, mouths opening wider, awestruck at the marvel being formed. Wayne’s rough hands brushed the shavings from the

beautiful round protruding breasts, positioned over a lovely sweeping belly; a visage of joy and purity. Coco.

Her eyes looked straight ahead as Wayne bent over to grab his color pallet. Sentry, straining to keep up with the formation of

the beauty, inadvertently made eye contact. He had followed the sculpted lines from waist to chest and unthinkingly followed the lines

on the beautiful long neck up to the carvings face. An innocent beam of joy passed over her face as their eyes met. Sentry’s stare

diverted to the floor, as if he had always been looking for that chisel down there. Coco’s smile faded for a second, her new eyes slowly

redirected downward to see what all the attention was about. What could so concern this handsome creature of strength? A glance at

the protrusions below her neck, of which she thought were rather lovely, was followed by a quick scan around the room. Wide-eyed

stares filled the gallery's numerous faces. She felt fulfilled by the recognition (any tiki would be). Reborn from stoic tree to expressive

art, from peaceful garden to gallery's glare in mere hours time, our beauty stood, bewildered.

Wayne popped back up and test rubbed some color on Coco’s face; it was red, adding an even more lively air to her aura.

Coco looked down again to evaluate the two round centers of attraction; her face now took on a shy demure look, eyes down, cheeks

flushed. The sunlight was creeping across the floor from the open door, equaling, then outshining, the overworked lamp that had

48

Pete Dooleyserved its purpose well.

Wayne stretched, creaked and groaned, dropping his tools to his side, not caring to put anything in its usual place. He slowly

turned and went out the studio door. The artist paid no attention as he shuffled past the two leather clad snoring forms in the bushes.

He creaked open and slid into the old girl, his trusty truck. They puttered and chugged out into the sunrise, turning to the south,

squinting past the palace of Zandor.

Nearing home, Wayne chose not to look at the devastation masquerading as construction that was once the garden. He drove

past the empty sand plot into the trail leading to the beach house. He ambled slowly to the outside shower on the side of the beach

house. Wayne washed the surface filth off, knowing it would take a cataclysmic event to wash away the misdeeds of the day. It pained

his very soul.

The sun was bouncing powerful rays off the oceans surface. He softly padded his way to the white bright room in the white

bright bed with the white bright sheets. No light would stop his rest. Wisdom lie naked before him, she spoke no words of comfort. He

was content knowing he and wisdom were one.

Early in the day is the most active time for the tiki. Today, there is much more to discuss. The soft voice from the beautiful

carving filtered across the studio.

“How did I get here? Where am I?”

A flood of voices; some sharp, others deep, caustic, snide, the calming, filled the room.

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” huffed Pocahontas, the Indian maiden.

“Just because you can’t see yours,” cracked one of the two wise guy tikis from the floor.

“Well I.” Pocahontas paused, lowering her eyes surveying her own topography.

Slowly, deliberately, clearing his voice (a great deal of dust up in the rafters) the soft throaty voice of Chief the cigar store

Indian, stood out over the din.

“Well. Well, ahem, first, there is this seed; it falls to the ground.

“Oh no, here we go,” The interruption came up from the floor. The two freshly carved, toothy tikis, were looking up,

spouting, and trading barbs.

“Why didn’t you start with a rain drop?”

“Or how dirt was made?”

Chief redoubled his efforts, clearing his voice. There was a momentary pause.

“The seed grows large and strong, if it is blessed so.”

Rapt silence; all finally want to hear his secret knowledge.

49

Beach Town Boom“The great trees live out their lives shading the rulers, holding the ground in place, being home for the two legged flyers and

the four legged fur creatures. Feeding all, with our fruits and nuts. As trees end their service, they fall. Their seeds have already

produced many more trees too come. As they end, they become the ground.”

There is a growing rumble of awe filled voices and commentary. The din subsides as Chief again raises his voice.

“BUT, IF,” a pause and a clearing of the throat.

“Ahem,” pause.

“A tree is found by the rulers before it joins the ground, pause.

“AND, is brought to the creator,” longer pause.

“He carves” (voice raising)

“Ahem; pause

“US, into what we are here.”

Coco’s eyes widened, she made contact with Sentry’s. He had just made another quick evaluation of Coco’s carveture. Their

eyes locked.

“Are you the creator?” she asked softly, sweetly.

Sentry’s eyes opened wide, he was temporarily at a loss. The room filled with laughter and a flood of comments.

“No, No, I am just like you.” The firm solid voice coming from Sentry, the crisp clear reply silenced the cacophony of the

room.

The Studio door rolled open. In walked Lu, dark and puffing, smoke trailing. Without a thought, he trundled past Coco and

grabbed a handful of right chest orb. He chuckled, impressing himself he continued to move past the conclave, to the rear of the

studio. He gathered a small, long box and went back out of the studio door.

“Is that the creator?” asked Coco.

“No.” The Chief’s voice was raised now, crisper and louder.

“That is Lu. He is trouble, he is..”

“Shut up you old antique!” the yell came from the dark back corner Lu had just visited. Angry carvings, with frightened

faces, pained expressions, unfinished wood pieces all throughout Lu’s work area exploded in his defense.

“Yeah; he’s just as good as any carver, “look at me baby.” Shouted one of them to Coco.

From the ground below, one of the smiling fresh carvings spouted, “yeah, don’t listen to Chief, he’s just an old redwood.”

“They are almost wiped out anyway,” crowed his toady.

Chief’s eyes narrowed. Pocahontas’ jaw tightened. An arrow zipped into the side of the loudest of the tikis on the floor. The

50

Pete Dooleywise guy’s face filled with shock. His compatriot beside him bit his wooden lip. There were cries of awe, shock, and fear throughout

the studio. Chief was stunned, yet to angry change expressions. Changing expressions took longer for redwoods than it did for the soft

palms, in any event.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I, I.” whimpered the cocky log.

Two shadows cast across the room. Lu bent over and pulled the arrow out from the side of the shocked tiki.

“Damn, missed the target completely,” giggled Lu. He turned and left the room. Soon a large golden haired being was

crouching over the silent wincing tiki.

“Don’t worry buddy, I can patch anything,” Michael assured the carving.

He scooped up some wood shavings, mixed them together with some wood glue and filled the small hole. One could almost

detect a look of relief on the carvings face. Mike stood, stepped over his patient, and his now silent pal. Turning his head towards the

door he barked; “Lu get to work.”

Mike moved deliberately to another area filled with eyes and mouths, and randomly carved parts of unfinished shaved logs.

He went immediately to work, carving.

“I-Is that the creator?” purred Coco, in awe of the noble, thoughtful gesture.

“No, No. That's Michael. He carved me!” said the now reserved, soft spoken, still grinning tiki on the floor. His pal was still

silently looking at chief, wondering how he shot the arrow from up in the rafters.

“No dear; let me finish.” Chief continued. There was absolute silence.

“We are in the studio now, we have become something. If we are good enough, and present ourselves well, we then go to the

gallery,” resumed Chief. Ohhhs and ahhs filled the room in a mass of agreement among the carvings.

“AND, -AND,” chief barked loudly to make his point over the commentary. Loud enough for Michael to momentarily turn

and look around the studio. The tikis instantly became silent. Michael shook his head, and returned to his carving.

"And,” Chief began in a normal tone over the complete silence.

“If,” he seemed to be making an address of some importance. With all the eloquence he could muster, not to just the tikis in

the room, but all tikis of the world.

“If, then, you are deemed of value to one of the beings, you are purchased from the gallery and put on display!

“That;” “THAT! Is the ultimate!” His voice booming, filled with emotion, echoed throughout the room.

In perfect timing with Chief’s oratory, in the front of the studio, Lu finally deemed it appropriate (Wayne had showed up) to

crank up his chain saw with an explosive growl. Just as all the tikis burst into applause.

51

Beach Town BoomAbrupt silence, the applause stopped at its peak. Whispers of, “Wayne.” Attention getting warnings of, “Wayne,” whispered

adulation. “Wayne.”

The sun behind the being of all this attention cast a shadow over Coco. Sentry was tipped and leaned onto a pushcart by this,

Wayne, and taken out the door in one flowing movement. Questions flashed throughout her pretty noggin. “Is he going to the gallery

place, is he gone for good?” By the time Coco could evaluate, Sentry and Wayne were gone.

Wayne reappeared, crossed the room and in one fluid motion rolled and tipped Coco under his arm. She was dragged out of

the door, her bottom scuffing across the floor. Coco was facing up to see Wayne’s silhouette against the blue sky, the face they all

were in awe of; her creator.

In the gallery door, up against a wall, she was tipped back up. Coco took inventory of her surroundings: Wayne had left the

room, gone as fast as he had appeared. She now found herself in this cleaner, cooler, well painted room. Where is Sentry? She had

expected him to be taken to the same local.

“Hey sista, lookin good.” One of the Hawaiian tiki gods standing near the door was the first with greetings. Coco felt, well,

naked, as well as, on display. Comments were thrown out all throughout the room. A painting on the wall, a pirate with a patch over

his eye, suddenly had it lifted so as to see more of the newcomer. Two lovers entwined in a kiss, a carving on the wall; the topmost in

the kiss looked up, the kissee glared. She heard a searing voice to her left.

“What's all the racket about, she’s not even a hardwood,” hissed Mizbek, obviously jealous about being no longer the queen

of the gallery. Polished and beautiful, carved from dark mahogany, she glared at the new center of attention.

“Plenty of hardwood in here now!” came the reply from the Hawaiian bruddas, chuckling amongst themselves.

“No account for taste, I would expect a little more decorum in the gallery,” came the reply from the angry smooth face of

Mizbek.

“Ah the gallery,” thought Coco, “but where is Sentry?”

“Did Wayne bring in a big, beautiful, painted, well-hewn carving?” Coco somehow expropriated a formal tone. Perhaps this

would get some answers from the elite in the gallery.

There were a multitude of responses.

“Beautiful? Painted? Well yes darlin, you,” barked the old pirate.

“Well hewn, har har,” the retorts from the Island boys near the door.

“I tink he in de groun, sista.”

In the ground was a private code among the carved, used with respect. Definition: as to be in place, to be seen or on display.

Coco blanched looking throughout the gallery. She was in fact exhilarated about being the center of attention; it was why she was

52

Pete Dooleycreated. She was troubled by the comment, “in de groun.” She feared it meant thrown down, or out. She repeated out loud, “In the

ground?”

“He is on display, deary,” Mizbek huffed indirectly to Coco.

“On display, out in front, guarding the whole place,” marveled the two Hawaiians near the door. “Big sucka, yeah, well

hewn.”

The whole room exploded in laughter and commentary. Coco fell silent, eyes cast down. Somehow she had felt a connection

with this beautiful giant. She had hardly gotten to speak to him. “I only asked him a few stupid questions,” She mumbled. The room

grew silent.

“Now, that is what we are all made for, sweetie.” The soft sweet voice came from Mizbek, now cognizant of the concern in

Coco’s queries. Mizbek’s face reflected the sadness of the innocent beauty leaning dejectedly against the wall.

Something was happening: It could have been the life fluids still flowing inside Coco, or, having been plucked so violently

from the ground. Perhaps it was the rushed, forced events of the last hours, or the rapid creation of the beautiful carving,

hypothetically, the abrupt end to photosynthesis, atmospherically the rapid temperature change from steamy studio to air conditioned

gallery. No tiki had an answer. It was something a tiki never had done before.

A small drop of liquid formed, just below the indentations of Coco’s eyes. It rolled down the rosy red cheek, down to the tip

of her perfectly carved chest. Only one, and it could have been a bomb, splashed in a barely audible plink, onto the gallery floor.

53

Beach Town Boom

Conflict

Lu, outside the studio, silently takes notice of Wayne's turmoil. He further observes that Wayne has skipped his daily ritual of

cleaning the front area of flotsam, jetsam and random losers.

“Hey, mayan,” one of the rustics housed in the bushes gargles to Lu.

“Lu, git me one o’ them totem poles, ah got twenny dollars.”

With a quick scan, eyes left, eyes right, the coast was clear. Lu slipped into the gallery and reached down in a small box near

the desk in the back of the room. In this box were small, molded tikis, sold to the tourists who wanted a memento and nothing more. A

memento that would end up on juniors dresser, fall to the floor, spend months gathering dust, eventually be tossed in a box and be

given the; “what's this?” Eventually to be tossed in the trash, shortly after the response, “I dunno.”

Lu approached the leather clad art buyers, sheltering the piece in his palm. He whipped the stolen knick-knack into the filthy

waiting hand grabbing the twenty in one flowing rapid movement. He turned and hissed over his shoulder; “Now get out of here and

don’t tell anyone where you got that.” The two hunched over, scanned the area, then scurried away into the dark confines of the bar

next door.

Rex and Len were on their third cheap beer before they decided to pull out the masterpiece and evaluate its true worth. They

tried to focus through the dark of the room while recharging their daily stupor. It didn’t take long, or much more booze, to realize they

had been bamboozled.

54

Pete DooleyTwo washed up bags of femininity; queens of the cigarette and beer soaked, watering holes such as the LoCal bar, shuffled to

their table. One; slather-flopped up to the unbalanced, round table knocking the hot art piece to its side.

“Oh thash cute,” said the one wearing the loose fitting crop top. Her beer-tightened belly lapped over her pink, at least one

size too small, peddle pushers. She leaned forward, her unrestricted droopy chest flaps rested like two tired dachshunds on the table,

noses in the air. Her compatriot, starch in her brownish red hair, smiled. Her crooked yellow-green teeth were outlined by the reddest

of red lip paint slathered on over thin lips, enhancing her voluptuousness. Her wrinkled neck shook as she blew smoke in seductive

blasts, up past her sweeping eyebrows painted on her bald forehead over her green-painted eye sockets. The smoke down blasts shot

over her heaving flat chest. Accentuating the lusty smoke come on, were two pancake breasts seeming to have one small M&M

perfectly placed in the center of each. She wore an all to tight spandex, lime-green band around her bony upper torso. “Beer goggles

on or not these two chicks were hot!” though Lenny.

Lenny was known as the strong one. The massive layers of fat on his frail frame earned him this designation among the bar

dwellers. Rex, his partner, had no teeth, sacrificed to the life on speed, coupled with lack of any personal hygiene. “What a score,

maybe this totem pole is luck,” Rex slurred in his brain remnants. The thoughts rattled around in his hat holder sounded like they had

no teeth as well.

“Ah wont one,” purred the floppy one, Sam. She was given the name Samantha forty-seven years ago, by that beyuch that

murried her diddy whin her mommy runoff. Her real mom was going to call her Blaise. In any event, she went by Sam.

“Oh, me too.” The throaty growl came from pancakes. Her name was Sheena. She began to laugh, but it ended up in a fit of

hacking. The sound resembled a bag of marbles being rapidly lifted and dropped on a wood floor.

“Baybee, we can git you eeeeech one,” crowed the big man. Len was the quick thinker of the two, thus designated because

words came out of his mouth faster. Lenny really didn’t much care what the words were; he just wanted to keep these fine beasts on

the line.

“We’ll git y’ both one.” slathered Rex. Both actually came out bose. Standing proud and tall, he reached over and wrapped

his spindly arm around the hot one that was “showin it all” through the tight little top. Sheesh thought Rex. “I’m all over thisun.”

“Ah gotta pee, be raut bayuck” purred Sam.

“Hoe up, I’m right wichu baybee, hack hack” gargled Sheena.

“Don’ you go nowhere” she cracked back to the boys.

She smiled, red lipstick on the foremost of her false teeth.

“Damn this cheap beer makes you piss like a fire hydrint,” Sheena whispered to her shorter compatriot. Both were taking

Olympic speed walker strides towards the stinky urinal.

“Yeaw,” she barked as she swatted Sam on her shaky bag of flesh trapped inside the side zip pedal pushers.

55

Beach Town Boom “Sheeyut, don't do that! I’m gunna piss myself,” whimpered Sam.

That comment caused Sheena to pick up and drop the bag of marbles all the faster until she had to stop and lean against the

wall in a hacking fit. It subsided only after coughing so hard she barked from her nether regions a small yelp of flatulence. “Oh I hope

the boys didn’t hear that,” she thought, “Wouldn’t be lady like.”

The gals trundled off to the restroom, Lenny, the fast-thinking one, grabbed Rex by the arm and spewed his in-depth plan to

heist the gallery next door.

“Tonight we gonna jump ‘em bushes, cut over to where they keep them carvins, bust in, and grab a couple for us, makin our

ladies real happy; get it Rex, real happy. Hell, maybe one of these babes’ll let us shack up with em, sure better an sleepin in ‘em

bushes.”

Rex was up for anything, often because his surmisal machine, as he referred to his brain, was coasting in some cheaply

brewed fluid.

“I rectum,” he mumbled, waiting for Lenny to break up with laughter. Rex thought changing I reckon to I rectum

was the height of wit.

“I think you ought to git yerself one while we’re in there.” He continued. Rex was trying to clarify who actually owned the

chick magnet art piece. He was trying to verify, to Lenny, whose disability check the twenty dollars had come from originally. The big

man didn’t blink, his fat, hairy arm shot out and grabbed Rex by the throat, trapping Rex’s protruding Adams apple below the

webbing of his filthy thumb and forefinger.

“Ain’t we in this together bitch?” he hissed.

Rex’s eyes were bulging, his tongue flopped out like some worked up bloodhound. Rex shook his surmisal machine

encasement rapidly up and down. If he had a knife, he would have run it right up Lenny's belly. They hocked his knife for some meth

money the week before.

“Hey boys, we’re easy, no need to fight over us,” Sheena purred. Sam just smiled showing her front four teeth and a huge gap

in the bicuspid region.

“We’z just messin around,” blurted Lenny. Rex rubbed his neck, he felt Sheena's boney fingers slide around his waist,

looping real sexy like, through his saggy leather belt. Sheena took a long pull off of her generic cigarette, leaving cheap maroon

imprint on the filter, a filter that was keeping the additional tar and nicotine from recoating her remaining twenty percent of lung

capacity.

“Man!” thought Lenno, (a nick name he tried to push that sounded more like the comedic wit he personified) staring at Sam,

“I’d like to tongue her right now.”

“We gonna set you girls up with some art tonight,” came out of Rex’s, gum only, tooth free mouth. “Set” came out sounding

56

Pete Dooleylike shet and some came out sounding like “shum.”

Reed wasted no time; the plans had been long in the making. He scheduled the slab to be poured right after the footers, the

carpenters were on the scene sawing and stapling the Celotex and fiberboard. His castle would be oceanfront; he would subdivide the

remaining sector to patchwork plots with ever so small town homes side by side, allowing only room for air conditioning units

between them. The Garden was going to be the initial investment on which Reed would build his empire. All this, he chuckled to

himself, from an escrow account he had convinced the bank he was good for, as deposit on the land, until the paperwork cleared.

Everybody was waiting for everybody else to get his or her money while Reed was moving forward.

If all this worked, Reed thought about mousing his hair, buying some time on the cable networks and having rubes send him

money to use his plan.

Become a Millionaire Real Estate Mogul with Zero Down

Host: Gregory Reed. Airing at 2:30 AM on cable channel 156.

He was sure he could get the mayor of Crescent Beach to even endorse his show.

Giant windows and sliding glass doors opened to a swimming pool. The sea beyond, gave the illusion one could walk right

out onto water. The dunes had been mowed flat by, ah- er -mistake. Next door, the old beach house seemed to be at second floor level

to Reeds house. Before any of the undertaking had begun, Reed had a wall put up to enhance the exclusive look. Gated communities

were de regur now, a real selling point to the, I got mine and you don’t set. The key selling point of gated communities was to assure

buyers that, once behind concrete, they were safe and somehow elevated in stature. “Good,” thought Reed, “with the wall up, now I

can’t see Wayne's dump.”

Adam had daily battles on the construction site. Things swirled, were dropped, hoisted, and shoveled, all around the growing,

young palm tree. One of the walls came in close proximity to the root structure, and the tree barely survived. The landscaping was

minimized on Reeds plan so as to maximize structural square footage. The landscape design resembled something that might be found

in New Mexico; a few cactus, a spare palm and some myrtle bushes. Landscaping was usually the last thing and could be finalized

after the homeowner moved in. Adam hung around and powered through his other projects in order to be on site during the day, while

the building frenzy was at its height. He hung with the pavers to divert the circular drive just enough to miss the palm, running up just

in time to keep the roofers forklift from backing into the last vestige of greenery. Eventually, the mania slowed, the rumbling and

chugging subsiding into the roar and hiss of the ocean. One eventually could hear the wind blow through the swaying fronds of the

now tall, beautiful palm tree. Adam worked late into the night, planting the real estate guide flora and fauna around the base of the

57

Beach Town Boomtree, camouflaging and preserving the last memory of the garden.

The extra curricular activity by Adam was not lost on Reed. One day, surveying his holdings from within from the second

floor, he watched the frenzied loser. Adam was shoveling, planting, trimming, and babying the tiniest details of growth throughout the

grounds. Reed at first felt sorry for Adam, musing that, if he wasn’t married to the hottest, most unattainable woman in town, they

might even be friends. “Then he wouldn’t be working for me either,” chuckled Reed. “Too slow and in the way.” He further calculated,

“When I’m settled in a bit more, I’m going to change things around here.”

A busy studio day ends, the orange fading sunlight turns to gray, a weary Michael heads up to his apartment over the gallery.

Wayne pauses for a second to look at the proud, beaming face of the Sentry. He slowly turns and slides into the old girl, parked in

front of the studio, U-turns from the river-facing parking job and rumbles off South, towards the beach house.

Darkness settles, there is a hissing of commands, mixed in with the rattle and clink of wanna biker chains and creaking

leather vests. The big man took the lead. Rex figured that Lenny's experience in Nam would cover his inexperience in general

sneakery.

Lenny in reality had never been out of the states, much less involved in any military conflict whatsoever. It had become

fashionable for some of the loudest claimants from the conflict to ride around on loud motorcycles. Lenny had that look. Thousands of

Vietnam vets slipped into anonymity and normal garb, but Lenny employed the Vietnam vet disenfranchised look, one rung above

biker garb. Lenny, the big man, never owned more than a Honda 250, he never claimed to be a war hero, he just chose not to talk

about it. His vet status had grown from a chance encounter. Lenno had slipped into a Vietnam vets parade solely to tap into the picnic

afterwards. Wedging himself into the chow line, he was asked by a real combatant some basic questions in friendly banter. Lenny

froze. In sympathy, another vet saved the day, just as he probably had done years earlier when bullets were flying. “Maybe he just

doesn’t want to talk about it.” Spotting an opportunity, Lenny just looked at the ground and joined in the ensuing group hug. Lenny

eventually mastered key words and mannerisms, mumbling “Khe San” or “hunnert n first” followed up with silence. The facade had

grown over the years; the bar set had created their own battle scenes and scenarios for the big man. Lenny had perfected his; "just not

wanting to talk about it," pout. Rex had been to Vietnam. He just chose not to talk about it, to anyone.

Under cover of darkness, the two duck-crawled to a location in the hedges near the front of the studio, the same bushes they

staggered and collapsed in a clatter and thump after most nights of reverie. The smell of urine was strong and the clink against old

bottles would have given them away to any ARVN nearby, but the coast was clear. They scouted and were ready for advancement.

Lenny used the hand signals he had seen Martin Sheen or Charley Sheen or Michael J. Fox use in movies about Vietnam. To

58

Pete DooleyRex’s best recollection, Lenny was signaling him to go, stay, and lay low, finishing with; someone was on the perimeter. Confused,

Rex alternately bolted forward, leaned back, ducked, and then slammed his forehead into the side of Lenny's cheekbone. Lenny glared

at Rex. In true heroic, take-charge fashion, he stood bolt upright and swam through the thorn bushes. In so doing he rammed forward,

catching his belly and leather vest on the chain link fence hidden by the overgrowth. The force of the upward and forward thrust left

the big man teetering on the top of the fence that was straining to support his girth.

Rex grabbed Len’s boots and gave them a shove towards the midnight sky. Len’s leather vest tangled with the top prongs of

the fence, locking him in place, creating a fulcrum. The big man's weight and the building code 9056-731 {no fence shall be higher

than 4.5 ft.} did not give Len optimum clearance. He was heading down, head first.

The downward stroke raked Len’s forehead and receding hairline across the concrete, removing one-quarter inch of scalp

before impressing his face into the chain link fence. He was now in an arched back position, legs up, ass over elbows. Not quite as

limber as he never was, the fence waffled his face. The sounds coming from his puckered lips and red puffed cheeks came out

something like; “gehelk gunk gheck ghaak.”

“Damn,” Lenno thought, “broke my back, broke my neck, I’m gonna die.” Lenny immediately began to cry. Tears stung his

sanded down skull. The big man had a low threshold for pain.

Rex, having some training, remembered when it was time to go, you go. “Over the hill motherf*****,” his lifer sarge used to

yell at him.

Rex carrying much less weight, leather clad as well, was in mid jump when Lenno teeter tottered the fence. Rex’s only

avenue was through Lens legs, now in the air like goal posts.

Rex’s jump-slipped over the top of the fence and clumped squarely onto Lenny's upturned crotch. Rex’s heel ground full

weight into the Y and wherefore of Len’s goods. This action drove Lenny’s head into a more crooked state, raking his pudgy cheeks

down to the bottom of the fence. The bottom weaves of the fence links were now in his nostrils. Lenny cried out, convinced it was his

last dying breath.

Rex’s ballet-like leap met with a stiff-legged stall. The back end of his bell-bottom chinos hooked the top of the fence

sending him forward like a falling timber, sans pants. The fine leather belt and stylish trousers chose to remain enjoined to the fence

top, Rex now a human projectile. The full force of his emaciated one hundred and forty two pounds drove him into the coarse, fibrous

trunk of the Sentry. The collision with Sentry halted all forward motion of the bottomless, missile snapping the Rex15’s nose cone

head to the side. He immediately entered into a peaceful, comatose state. The sound of the impact was similar to a watermelon being

dropped from the height of six or seven feet, a hollow, splat-thok. Farce met force and face, smashing cheek and nose breaking the

latter. A veritable Lake Okeechobee like frame, in blood, formed on the concrete.

Rexy lay peacefully; both hands below him, knuckles down, shoulders hunched, shiny white, hairy posterior glowing in the

59

Beach Town Boommoonlight. One cheap, made in China flip-flop was still on his filthy foot, the other still resting on Lens crotch.

Sentry stood noble and proud over the scene, startled at first, but the rapid deterioration of the assault made his job easy. The

Hawaiian tikis in the gallery foyer reported the great battle and victory blow by blow to the enthralled, concerned pieces within.

“Hey bra beeg guy tron into fence. Done in. Skinny guy divin for sentry, nock sucka out!”

“Is sentry OK?” pleaded Coco”.

“Not a scratch, sista, not a scratch. Beeg mess. Sun comin up. Michael comin down.”

Michael casually came down from his small apartment over the gallery and arrived to witness the carnage.

“Creator standing there now.”

Wayne had shown up at sunrise as usual, only to find Michael over the crumpled sappers.

Earlier, Sheena and Sam had sashayed out of the LoCal, at five thirty in the morning. They were ticked off at the failure of

their men to return from the sortie. Sam’s Vega was parked in front of the gallery. Hearing moaning coming from the bushes in front

of the studio, they both figured the boys had found newer pastures to plow. Sam; drunk, hurt and mad, maintained her class by not

saying a word but shooting double middle fingers in the direction of the moaning and huffing. Sheena on the other hand wasn’t going

to let sleeping dogs lie, or whatever dogs do at five thirty in the morning, in bushes.

“Yew dirty, no good,” breaking free of Sam's grip, Sam was still trying to maintain some sort of bar hag dignity. Sheena

kick-slashed her way into the bushes with her pockabook. Her pockabook, a kotex, perfume, condom, beer money and cigarette, filled

purse.

Her plastic, stiletto, high heals sunk into the sand and the long thorns of the carissa hedge poked into her soft saggy skin. The

alcohol-thinned blood formed red spots that blended in with her freckles and liver spots. The rage, enhanced by the buzz, gave way to

the vice-like, temple-crushing hangover. Sheena now felt like some kind of super woman. Most super women have groovy boots that

strap up the front of their legs and come to the knees. Sheena’s four ninety eight, plastic stilettos with the fluorescent yellow flowers in

front, bogged down and tossed her headlong into the dense thorny bushes. She was suspended, parallel to the ground, no more than

two feet from the surface of the planet. At this point she came almost face to face with the waffled, balloon like visage, fence in

nostrils, semi comatose, mug of Lenny. Sheena let out a bellow; the sound resembled someone trying to start a small, Sears Craftsman

chain saw. Startled by the sight and her precarious positioning, she tried to enunciate the universal word. She could only bark out,

“Fa.. fa.” This phonic spasm dislodged her upper plate and jettisoned it into Len’s new fence mask with a slight clink. Sheena back-

crawled out of the hedge with utter abandon, rescratching herself, but She had the wherewithal to grab her four ninety-eight stilettos

60

Pete Dooleyon the way out.

Sam was doing a floppy, nervous dance in a semi crouch with both hands open, facing up, in a pleading fashion to Sheena. It

was the same stance she used when she played second base on the LoCal bar’s ladies softball team. Sam had peed in her pedal

pushers.

“C'mon what happened? You scared the cra-.” she couldn’t finish her plea before Sheena blurted, “Shomebody killed em,

they're all tore up, lets git the cops!”

Sheena hop slipped on the four ninety eights and clickity clacked after the shuffle run, piddy pat, sloshy, wibble wobble of

the LoCal’s second string second baseman. Onward they shuffled to the palace of Zandor. They burst into the first floor of the ever

ready to protect and serve; Crescent Beach Police department. Time; six- thirty in the morning.

Michael scanned the battlefield carnage. He opened the studio door turning on a light to better assess the bizarre scene. He

headed directly for the human lump at the base of Sentry. Wayne was struggling to dislodge the fat fellow by pulling him up by the

torso. He took a deep breath, wrapped his arms around Len’s waist and tried to lift. It took only three great tugs to realize the inverted

hulk was hooked like a prize bass through his nose on the bottom of the fence. Wayne’s huge sandal clad foot, was used to press the

fence outward towards the palace of Zandor, freeing, the huge clod. Tossing him over backwards towards Sentry, Len landed on his

back, legs still forming a V. The made-in-China flip flop miraculously remained in place, dulling the impact on the big man’s

reproductive organs as he slid-whacked down, his legs on either side of the Sentry.

Michael turned Rex’s head to see if he was on his way to drunkard, wanna-biker nether world. The mere touch dislodged the

surface tension, of the concrete to flesh adhesion, holding him in place. Rex slid forward and down, lubricated by his own puddle of

blood. He let out a groan as he flop-thwacked forward into a less embarrassing position. Rex was now rearranged from the dumper-up

pose, to the standard, more acceptable, drunk down posture. Merciful Mike pulled out a wood chip filled rag from his back pocket. He

lifted Rex up slowly to a sitting position and tossed a nearby newspaper over Rex’s befouled nakedness. Michael gently began to dab,

at the wound.

Lenny began sobbing again. He had never lost consciousness. His face was swollen. Both commandos had the raking scars of

the stinging carissa thorns. The blood gathered in Len’s pumpkin-shaped head, giving it a pinkish-red hue, numerous blood vessels

had burst in his eyes. He now resembled an angry tomato. Len could only moan and groan in well-deserved self-pity.

Coincidentally, as the two were dislodged, prostrated, elevated and resituated, Botchis and Bolus, Crescent Beach’s finest

secured the area. Zonking red and blue rays from their police cruiser clashed with the early morning orange hue.

Previously, at headquarters, Bolus and Botchis had, after having the two female complainants fill out the proper paperwork,

61

Beach Town Boomprepared to quell any and all disturbances at the gallery across the street. They donned their newly issued, sharp white helmets, and in

unison, slid their night sticks down their belt holsters, checked ammo chambers and donned bullet proof vests. There was a short pause

in the prepping as Bolus had to make a short trip to the restroom.

Bolus rushed into the shiny new stall, recently upgraded to the new laser beam auto flusher type, agreed upon by the powers

that be. The laser flusher had been installed after an earlier study, authorized by the city commission. Automation seemed to be the

only recourse to keep peace in the bowels of the city hall. Numerous battle ships and sundry PT boats, of the brown sort, had been left

at anchor in the toilets on a regular basis. Now, through technology, there was peace in the valley.

Bolus had a moment alone to think, while debelting and deholstering in the modern stall. He became dizzy and disoriented.

Thoughts of coming upon a gory murder scene or some in-progress, violent act, jettisoned his coffee, donuts, and last nights burger in

a massive fire hose like stream, directly into and around the freshly set plumbing miracle. It was over as fast as it began.

Bolus’ eyes were watering as he approached Botchis who was kershacking his shotgun, ejecting shells then putting them

back in the chamber.

“What happened to you?” he chuckled.

“Aw, someone dropped a bomb in there, ‘bout choked to death.”

Botchis stared at what looked like a half eaten french fry on Bolus’ maroon tie.

“Let’s roll.” God that was fun to say, he thought.

They scrambled out of the back of headquarters; driving out as fast as the large boat- like Ford would go. They had forgotten

about the new culvert and curb under construction in front of headquarters. Bolus and Botchis both had taken turns for months

diverting traffic until the appropriated money had been used up. The job was still only half way completed. The huge car dropped into

the culvert trough and launched into a state of flight, sparks flying in all directions from under the battle cruiser. The rig came to a halt

on the third bounce in front of the gallery. Bolus and Botchis whacked open the doors and in one motion charged onto the scene.

Wound up and in full attack mode, Botchis noticed that the two female complainants had beaten them across the street, on

foot. Bolus commanded Botchis to secure the scene. Michael and Wayne were asked to step away from the two males on the ground,

in obvious need of medical attention.

“What happened here, Wayne?” Botchis barked in his best command voice.

“I don’t know, sir, we found them like this.” Wayne replied in his own faux command voice

“Ouh Yeah, you done this,” screamed Sheena; “you got it in for these boys.”

“Scuse me mam,” Bolus moved threateningly towards the torn and tattered skank. “You’re going to have to be quiet and let

us conduct our investigation, or you‘ll have to leave.”

62

Pete DooleyHe was proud he remembered all the cop speak he had accumulated from watching hours of television cop shows. He was

tempted to run the butt of his shotgun up the side of her toothless jaw.

“Shory offisher, but thems got it in for thems,” she continued pointing left to right.

Bolus was two steps from wrapping her around and throwing her zip tied ass into the cruiser.

“Aint nobody done nothin to nobody,” mumbled Rex; slipping on his pants from behind the newspaper Michael was holding

up. “Jus an accident.”

“Well, we’re going to bring you two in and get to the bottom of this, so, please step over this way, gentlemen.”

Bolus grabbed the shoulder of the large fellow sobbing on the ground, pulling his arms together behind him and zip tying his

pudgy wrists together. Rex, knowing the routine, thankful at the thought of a hot shower and a baloney sandwich, spun and placed his

wrists together. Botchis moved in and zip tied his thin bony arms together. At the cruiser, he held his hand over Rex’s head, the same

way he had seen it done on TV, easing him into the back seat. He took his helmet off holding it under his arm, and dropped sideways

into the front seat. He cracked the side of his head on the top of the patrol car door.

Bolus took a second, turned from the fat guy, and leaned in to Wayne.

“Hey Wayne; let us do our job, you don’t have to do this, we can take care of this stuff.”

Wayne shrugged, turned and walked toward the studio door. Bolus searched the fat, waffle guy before loading him into the

cruiser. Pulling out one of the small tourist molded tikis from his vest pocket; he held it up to show Wayne asking him if any of these

had turned up missing.

The fat guy came to life; protesting that he had paid Lu good money for that little tiki.

Wayne felt a cold tingle down his spine. Lu had no business creeping around in the gallery.

Bolus manhandled his prisoner into the cruiser. Guarding the top of the waffle-faced, fat guy, he wedged him into the seat

next to his compatriot. Bolus wanted to say something more to Wayne, but nothing more came to mind. He whacked his ear on the top

of the rain gutter, his nightstick ramming it up into his armpit as he dropped into the seat.

Botchis tried so hard to suppress his laughter at his Psst chief’s discomfort, that he got a stomach cramp and a kink in his

neck while turning his head away. The stomach cramp subsided as the interior of the cruiser filled with a rancid odor, a bouquet of

onion, horseradish and barbecue from the Super Macker BBQ special Botchis had polished off earlier in the evening. “Arrested, tried,

convicted, and gassed,” he blurted out before doubling over in hysteria. Both rolled down their windows as fast as they could. The

windows in the back of the cruiser had no such handles.

Bolus casually pulled his nightstick out and laid it in the seat next to him.

“One of these days,” he moaned, releasing an all-encompassing, generic sigh.

Botchis was going to say something in addition, but the ringing in his own head and the concentration it took to suppress the

63

Beach Town Boomnext bout of hysteria, kept him focused on the job at hand. Headquarters was less than a fifty-yard drive away.

“Man, Wayne, you really did those guys in,” Michael mumbled in shocked awe.

“Me? I thought you-? I just got here,” whispered Wayne.

Michael shook his head as he walked into the studio. Wayne stood there for a moment, alternately staring at the battle scene

and back to the side of Sentry’s huge head. The light of the morning sun seemed at times as if the giant eyes of the carving were

looking straight ahead, yet occasionally glancing over to Wayne.

“Good job, buddy,” whispered Wayne, shaking his head and chuckling, half believing that the giant tiki had done these two

malefactors in.

“I‘m going to have to have a talk with Lu,” thought Wayne, as he spun and walked towards the Gallery.

Chief and Pocahontas, high in the rafters, could survey the scene best. The noise of the conflict had all the carvings in terror

the entire night. All had begged Chief for an update. Chief was in a rare state, at a loss for words. He had never seen the creator

directly address a carving before. Yes, yes; “You look good,” or “C’mon, you,” before picking up or dragging a carving to its location

or temporary station. Here was the maker congratulating a tiki, on a job well done. This never happened before. What kind of super tiki

was this?

Chief began his oratory.

“The great warrior, Sentry, has defeated the evil ones. He knocked them down!” The carvings one and all let out a low

rumble of hushed awe. Being knocked down to a carving was second only to the terror of fire. Sentry had not only defeated one, but

two!

From back in Lu’s area came a scratchy voice in tense pride.

“Now we can get them, lets get them all, we can make him our leader!”

A great cry of derision and laughter filled the room full of carvings. The rebels from Lu’s area grew quiet.

Chief began again.

“In no time before has there been a carving such as this!”

Awaiting a great crescendo of applause and cheering, he paused.

Chief; his eyes closed in the great moment of oratorical acme, failed to notice the shadow moving across the floor. The

shadow stopped its slithering intrusion when the being that owned it halted at the studio door. All fell silent.

Lu let out a sigh, as he did most days, at the sheer futility and waste of his massive talents. He was trapped in this puny

64

Pete Dooleybuilding, in this puny town. His pause gave Michael time to rise and come forward to the front of the studio. Michael placed himself

in front of Lu. Lu was prepared to veer around Michael, whom he gave not much more consideration than he did any of the wooden

carvings around the room. Mike took a quick step into Lu’s path, nearly bumping him chest to chest. Lu sneered and let out a stream

of downward cigarette smoke from his nose. Michael stopped what he was going to say, seeing Wayne appear behind the simmering

Lu. Trapped, Lu’s shifty eyes turned to Michael and back to Wayne.

“What's up, boss?” Lu took a pull off his cig in a nervous rapid movement. He knew it could be any number of things, but he

had the ability to diffuse any situation these rubes threw at him.

“Get your tools and your carvings and get out.” The statement was direct.

“What? Why?” tried Lu. The master of disruption was looking for any discomfort in their reply, any wedge to insert. Wayne

didn’t say another word. He turned and walked away. Michael began to gather Lu’s carvings and stack them out in front of the studio.

Lu, gathering his tools, began to simmer. He muttered to himself, “they can’t do this to me, I helped make this place what it

is.” By the time he made his last trip in to gather his belongings, he was in a rage. Half to himself half just to release the boiling evil in

his heart, standing at his former work area, he scanned the interior of the studio and hissed under his breath, “I’m going to burn this

place down.”

Lu made it a point to start a shoving match with Michael solely to cover the fact that he was keeping his key. Mike gave him

one last push off the property.

Lu; in shallow, calculated, defiance took his carvings and stood them on the sidewalk in front of the LoCal Bar next door. He

then sulked in to sop up some self-pity in the fine, yellow beverages available within.

In the studio, among the tikis, there was complete terror. The word burn meant fire.

“Do you think Michael heard him?” questioned Pocahontas.

“Will Sentry save us?” Blurted Fear, a little tiki in the corner, concern carved into his face long before these dire days.

Chief had a hard time masking his own personal terror.

“He was just talking, he won’t be back, and Wayne won’t let anything happen.”

The howls, moans and mumbling throughout the room told the true story. Fear and concern was now etched on more than

one small face.

Mark’s recuperation was moving along steadily. He was back at his major work, The Storm. Movement was slow but motor

skills remained status quo on his right painting side. The frustration of his new world, now revolving around one room, and no longer

having the ability to make it outside and negotiate the stairs, added to his simmering anger. The visitors with their pitying little

65

Beach Town Boomplatitudes all seemed to read from the same simps catalogue of inane commentary. The high point would come every other day, when

Wayne; showing no mercy or concern whatsoever, would come by to take the grumbling Mark for some fresh air.

Wayne would grab the back of the wheelchair and try his best to get the highest bump and pause between each step, ca-

thumping Mark down the stairs. It resembled a carnival ride, mostly for Wayne's great enjoyment. Snickering and oh, whoopsing, he

would jostle Mark, pitching him forward or almost over the side, down the stairs, creaking and careening back and forth, stranding

him out on the deck for an hour or so each episode. Mark had nothing good to say about the entire ritual, knowing any protestation or

the slightest growl would only increase the jostling and careening.

Every now and then, out on the deck, Mark would catch sight of the osprey and follow him around in his fishing and soaring

ups and downs, ins and outs. All too often, while following the flight, the trail would be lost, blocked by the bordering wall of the pre-

fab, glass monstrosity next door. The contrast of free flight and the confining concepts of man would provoke more anger in Mark,

expressed all the more in his dark piece in the studio upstairs.

Mark, at times, would paint all night, hindered by the partial, albeit increasing, use of his left side. The gray to evil, subdued

orange-brown sky of the watercolor wash, actually expressed his dark mood better than he expected. The paint can had slipped from

his mono grip. His work now resembled the great storms he had witnessed in the Indian Ocean, traveling throughout the South Pacific.

Mark’s ship could be in clear, calm, and secure seas; yet in the distance, looming closer, one could observe the clouds of torrent and

disruption. It was all coming.

“Oh God, here comes the little, mayor chick and she’s bringing some food. This stroke crap aint so bad after all,” Mark

mumbled out loud. “The whole place smells like spring after she comes in here.”

Mark wasn’t so sure he wanted the mood change Evie’s visits created. One glance at her face showed she had dark thoughts

of her own to deal with. “Maybe it’s the mayor thing getting her down,” he thought to himself.

“What's up, chick? You look a little tweaked.” Mark was using the most formal tone he could muster. To him, she was still

the little, naked beauty swirling through his memories of a sweeter, better time.

“Oh, oh, I-I’m fine, How are you?” Evie altered her expression to one of bright joy, lifting Mark’s spirits. It pained his heart,

her eyes were unable to mask some deep overwhelming sadness, no smile could camouflage.

Evie had just come from the monolith next door, her heart shrinking from the pressure applied in the vice of her confusion-

filled thoughts.

Greg Reed had brought up that he no longer had need of his home on the cul de sac and had proffered an incredible offer.

She, Adam and the kids all could move into his beautiful home, much more befitting the town mayor, and take over his mortgage.

Evie was almost brought to tears; Greg Reed was again looking out for them, what a great guy, she was thankful to have such great

66

Pete Dooleyfriends. What would Adam think? Reed had constantly been inviting Adam, the kids, and her, over to the garden, as he called it. The

name, let alone the situation, seemed to off put Adam, creating a no-win invitation.

The day of the offer, in the mayor’s office, Reed mentioned to Evie that she should escape the rigors and day-to-day battles in

the mayoral world, and escape to the garden. Exalting its recuperative powers, he claimed it rejuvenated him on a regular basis. Evie

had no real time set aside for herself. She was perfectly content and happy in the energetic, frenetic world she had created around

herself. But a break, a small break...no one would know.

Evie hadn’t seen Mark in a week. She would cobble together some fine piece of food from their house to keep Mark on his

road to recovery. If there was time, she might take a minute to look at the sea and enjoy the view, rejuvenate her memories of that

sweet and pure time. The garden era seemed so distant and long ago. On her way to the beach house, she couldn’t miss the huge

yellow wall and over-bearing gate. Greg would be so surprised about the gift she had arranged as a house warming. Evie smiled ear to

ear as she entered the gates.

Evie had paid a small fortune to Bek for the beautiful carving called, “Coco.” Neither Bek nor Wayne wanted to part with it,

but when Evie mentioned it was for a real special guy they capitulated. Bek just turned and smiled at Wayne, who nodded approval.

It had not dawned on Evie until just entering the gate, and standing before the shiny, new, glittering monolith, that they both

had thought it was for Adam. “Oh well no big deal.”

“Oh my God,” she exclaimed to herself, the colors in Coco’s painted on garments perfectly matched the aqua trim marble

around the outer wall. Evie was beaming.

No one inside, barely a soul on the beach out in front of the estate, bar the occasional wandering tourist. Thoughts of the past

rushed over Evie. “I have to get Adam, and see if Greg will rent us this place for a weekend,” thought Evie.

The glare of the sun, no shade from any foliage, beamed scorching reflective heat up from the concrete below the young

woman. It was becoming unbearable.

Evie, in her mayor’s best blue dress, buttoned up to the neck with white trim, retreated inside. Evie tiptoed onto the terrazzo

mezzanine, feeling the rush only a woman could, investigating a bachelor’s quarters. “This place is home to some legendary exploits,”

thought Evie, chuckling to herself. The town was still small enough to maintain a rumor mill. Maybe Greg's mother had left some

shorts or a swimsuit she could wear.

Evie was giggling now, alone and with some personal freedom, and a few moments to herself, for the first time in ages. She

opened the first walk-in closet she came to, feeling the exhilaration a cat burglar or any self-respecting busy body, with free reign in

someone else’s domain, might feel. There were quite a few swimsuits. Evies schedule never allotted time for beachwear and beach

fashion anymore. She reflected for only an instant.

Dropping her dress to the floor, Evie peeled out of all the armament of the businesswomen garb. She was now free of their

67

Beach Town Boomconstraints. She had left the sliding front door open. The life giving breezes of the day were cooled just enough by the six billion Btu

air conditioner, laboring silently outside the wall, refreshing her even more. Her skin was tingling, as she tried on a two-piece, yellow

bikini. The top was too small. The vice like cinching and tying that ensued, coupled with the slightly too large bottoms, caused her to

lose any interest in them. In no time both were rejected.

Huge mirrors, throughout the room, gave Evie a full view, in surround vision, of herself. Skin soft, yet all too white, she

couldn’t guess the last time she had been to the beach. Evie had filled out over the years; she couldn't see her ribs any more, but the

additional maturity hadn't punished her in the least. The invigorating ocean breezes and the cool of the man-made chill machine

massaged Evies fully exposed flesh, naked for the first time in so very long. Her nipples; chewed, sucked on, gnawed on, in fits of

alternating feeding and passion over the years, had maintained their ability to reform and tighten in with the excitement and

temperature swings of the room. “Very good,” she thought, “you are not an old bag, yet.”

Venturing outside, stepping lightly, peering about, Evie fully understood, that in America, a mayor, no matter what the size

of the burg, could not be seen stepping out of a bachelor’s beach house sans clothes. Evie tiptoed in a fluid motion, dropping most of

these concerns, as she had her mayor’s garb, now fully blanketed by the sun. Step by step, faster and faster, she scurried and dove into

the deep, aqua pool; it was no more than five steps out of the front sliding glass doors. She knifed into the water, bubbles caressing her

naked body, icy cold, in contrast to the scorching sun. Evie was bolstered and invigorated, her white skin taking on a slight bluish hue

with the cool water. She hopped around once or twice, dove under again and swam to the side of the pool. With one hop and a push,

she was out of the pool. The water splashed out from the rubbery rebound of her breasts wedged between her arms. “What a

wonderful time, refreshing and cleansing, all just, me time,” thought Evie. "Ouf, Where is Adam I would love to spend a few moments

with him right now and then show him on his way.”

Evie, laughing out loud, scurried into the poolside, lounge chair, maintaining a low crouch to preserve some dignity. There

was an odd chance one of her constituents might venture out of their condos in the middle of the day. She was absolutely giddy. Lying

back in the lounge chair, the sun evaporated the water from the pores of her shiny wet skin. She sighed deeply. Leaning forward, she

ran her fingers through her hair to give it a minute to dry then tousled her pubic hair in a rapid little movement, laughing all the louder.

She paused; muffling her outburst, hand over mouth. The evaporation coincided instantaneously with the forming of perspiration. Evie

had lost most, if not all, of her mayoral aplomb by this time. She used the natural juices, forming on her still near perfect body, as a

lotion, spreading the little pools forming on her abdomen, over her breasts, up her neck, and down her legs.

The attack of the warm, the freedom and full body breathing had now put Evie, who had closed her eyes, into a semi-

comatose state. Her dreamlike state, brought on by the ocean’s caressing thump and hiss, resurrected beautiful memories, repainting

exploits and joys inside the garden. Back in the garden of her dream, was Adam, her love. Perspiration and juices flowed in all pores

and areas, internally as well as externally.

68

Pete Dooley

“It’s wonderful, isn't it?”

Startled, the soft voice was right in front of her; Evie partially opened one eye to make the connection. Was this a dream or

reality? The intrusion slowly lifted her from her euphoric state.

“Isn’t it?” Greg Reed said casually.

He had pulled a chair up close to her side.

Evie was shocked and confused. She chose to relax, after all they were both friends, and she was an adult woman. Greg

seemed completely at ease, not seeming to take any undo attention to her natural state. This relaxed and comforted Evie, somewhat.

“Hey, is this guy perfect,” she chuckled to herself. The mayor sat up and pulled her legs together, wrapping her arms around her

knees.

“Don’t you just love this place?” said Greg softly.

“Oh yes, I was just a million miles away, no problems, no responsibilities, just wonderful.”

“Well you deserve it,” he said as he began to stand.

“Good,” thought Evie, “he is going to go and relieve me of some embarrassment.”

Reed leaned forward and kissed her on the top of her head. Evie reached up and patted his hand, the one on the back of her

head. His hand immediately slipped down, cupping her breast, capturing her nipple between his thumb and forefinger. He held it

briefly, squeezing it, and then released it, letting it slip through the perspiration. It bounced twice.

“Hey!” Evie yelled. Eyes wide open, Evie looked down at the motion.

“Greg,” was all she could say before he grabbed her under the jaw, pulling her head up into the sun. He kissed her, sweeping

his hand over her other breast, pinching her perspiration-coated nipple between his fingers and releasing it. In a continuing motion he

swept his hand down to her golden-haired mound. Evie was shocked at herself, her hands had dropped and her legs were now lying

flat on the lounge chair. She began to scoot up and protest. Before she could speak, Greg said “Its too hot out here, you will get all sun

burned; lets go inside.”

“Ah,” thought Evie tactically; ”my clothes.”

Stunned at Reed’s actions, and her own, she was further troubled at her inability to articulate any protestation to Greg.

The coolness inside caused a chill on Evie. Greg appeared, with a huge soft white towel.

“Greg I must be-,” she objected softly, turning only her eyes towards the door.

He began to warm her and wipe the perspiration from her, cupping under her breasts, down the inside of her legs, firmly

grasping her centerpiece, wrapping around her thigh, cupping her soft round bottom. He dried her back, right down the middle; he

then wrapped the towel around her. Evie was silent. He marched her five steps toward the bed.

69

Beach Town Boom“Greg!” she said sharply.

He sat her down. The sitting movement dropped the large towel from Evies shoulders. She slowly pulled it back up, half

heatedly, trying to slow, or reverse, a rapidly evolving situation. He lifted her foot and began drying the ball and arch of her foot,

between the toes, up the calf, lifting and spreading, leaning Evie back. The towel again fell to her lap. Evie made eye contact with

Reed for only a second. She sighed, easing her head back and flopped onto the soft comforter. His drying massage technique reached

the fulcrum of her legs.

Now in complete surrender, her legs eased apart. She threw her arms back over her head, her eyes closed. There was a small

pause before she felt his weight on her and then, rapid penetration.

His thrusting frenzy was matched by her guttural grunts. Curling her back up, knees high, she dug her heels into his hairy

contracting, flexing buttocks. The attack was almost painful. The pain soon became a spinal tingle, then an electric fluid coursing

throughout her entire being. The quivering became throws of ecstasy, her innermost pelvis contracting and vicing, her breasts scraping

and scratching against his hairy chest. She held him so tight that her arms lost circulation. Reed grunted and moaned. Evie burst into

tears. Somewhere in the nether regions, lost in seconds, or minutes, between ecstasies release and rest, breath by slowing breath;

pounding heartbeats return to slowing pulse. Reality and thought had returned to Evie.

On a synthetic, fiber filled-comforter, in a sanitary, air-conditioned environment, in a bed above slabs of concrete over a

region formerly filled with life and growth; she came to her realization. In a sacred place where Evie’s first passions flowed, she was

now trapped, unable to breathe, caught in a vice far beyond the slab of unfamiliarity on top of her. Gasping for air she felt as if she

was going to throw up.

Adam was the only word, deep in her inner being. Evie thought she had yelled it out at the top of her lungs. In reality all that

was audible were her sobs. Reed tumbled off to the side of the bed.

“I, I ‘m sorry.” he mumbled, out of breath.

“I, I have to go!” She jumped out of the bed, gathering her mayor wear. She briefly rinsed, looking disgustedly at herself in

the bathroom mirror.

Evie barked, “No one; no one, must know of this!” She pulled on her clothes, haphazardly, from a hopping, standing dance.

Reed propped himself up on one arm, “wait, wait!”

Evie was gone.

She hurried to her car, noticing the small cooler in the front seat. Racing, throbbing remnants of pulsing, orgasmic blood still

coursed through her temples, interspersed with rage and disgust, she clicked out loud with a dry mouth.

“Mark’s lunch!”

Evie wheeled her vehicle back in reverse, almost backing into the beautiful palm tree behind her. She did nudge her bumper

70

Pete Dooleyinto the carving leaning against the wall. In her rear view mirror, Evie focused in on the beautiful, colorful carving leaning against the

wall. The tap of her bumper rolled the tiki from the position of looking up into the sky, to a downward pose, braced against the large

palm tree. Coco!

Evie paused for a second and asked out loud, “how did she get there?”

A chill ran down her spine.

A special day in the gallery, Coco had been purchased. There were awe-struck comments all throughout the gallery. It seems,

no tiki had entered with such a swirl, spent such a short time and captured a home, as fast as the tall carving. Mizbek was shocked,

thrilled, and extremely happy to see this object of so much attention moving out of her domain. Coco had mixed feelings; she might

have a chance to see Sentry, but only perhaps for the last time. Would she be able to say anything?

Wayne came in and rotated Coco onto a dolly. It may have been from the euphoria of the day; it was rumored one

of the Hawaiian war gods, temporarily released his spear and reached for the lovely beauty's backside, as she was wheeled past. A

fruitless task as her entire carving was to her front. Kimo henceforth was looked upon with high esteem and held in high honor

amongst the peanut gallery, a subset of the gallery.

Coco, wheeled out by the master, was swept past the noble Sentry. She tried to speak. His huge eyes turned towards her. Was

it recognition? Was it perhaps as a matter of duty? Coco couldn’t tell. Coco was laid gently to the ground on some cardboard and

wrapped for the trip, soon to be on display. Joy, completed mission, every tiki’s dream. Why, thought Coco, was she so sad, if this was

to be such an honor?

Wayne left for a moment, mumbling that the address on the receipt must be some kind of mistake.

“Hey Wiz, is this the right address?” He seemed confused.

“That’s what she put on the receipt,” replied Bek.

Wayne’s brow furrowed.

“Chief! Chief I’m leaving,” Coco wanted to thank her mentor and her compatriots within the studio. Before she could finish,

there was a communal howl of terror and fear amongst the carved. Chief quieted the throng.

“Coco you must warn Sentry!”

“What? What can I do? What is wrong?” Coco now had forgotten her concerns, sensing the trepidation in the room.

“Lu, Lu is going to burn..” Wayne reappeared. Silence.

Why, thought Coco, if Wayne is the creator and Michael and the rest have these strengths and powers we don’t posses, why

can’t we tell them our problems. Why does no one talk to the maker of us all?

71

Beach Town BoomShe was rapidly hoisted up, wheeled out, past Sentry and dropped into the old girl, in one rapid, flowing movement. No

chance to notify, petition, or cry out.

A flight of pelicans was in a flying V formation, gliding by, overhead, with no wasted motion. Puffy white clouds, some

different, these were darker, grayer, menacing. In the blue distance, one lone osprey was looking down, slipping in and out of the

clouds, in long curving arcs, circling in the updrafts and thermals. The colors were changing to a stormy, grayish hue.

“This is not so bad,” thought Coco, “I am on my way to be in the ground.” The hubbub and frenzy of the gallery and studio

seemed to fade with every rattle and clack, blublub blub, and clank of the wired-on, tailpipe’s song of travel. A rapid stop, and almost

as fast, Wayne was at the back of the truck, sliding the beaming, satisfied beauty out to a standing position. Coco was in the shade of a

beautiful large palm tree.

“Ah, once we were, and now we are,” she flashed, looking up at the magnificent tree, remembering chief’s explanation of

origins.

Wayne; confusion showing on his face, seemed at odds as to where Coco was to be placed. He was just about to yell for Greg

when he decided to peer in a window, at eye level for him, out of view for most. Wayne stared for a moment, unaware that his jaw had

dropped. Anguish and pain filled his face. He spun and took one last look at Coco, then leaned her into a more secure angle, facing up

into the sky. He hissed under his breath, “Well, I’ll see you later, sweetie.” Shaking his head slowly, he walked to the idling old girl.

He coasted out of the drive and idled back towards the studio. He slumped to one side of the seat, crushed under an

impossible weight. A weight beyond the tikis or logs he could so readily move about, alter and display. "Man," was all that came from

his whispered breath. Man, mankind, or womankind, it wasn’t an answer or a statement; it was a grumble of exasperation.

“Is this it?” thought Coco, “Why am I not in the ground, where is Wayne, what is to become of the studio.” Coco felt a strong

bump to her side; the contact was enough to roll her to a face down position. She smelled exhaust. “ Wayne is back!" she was

momentarily uplifted, "Now I'll be in the ground." This hope faded, as the sound was not as vivid and familiar as Wayne and the old

girl. After a pause, the engine sound drifted off. “Is this it, is this where I will be?” Coco was left wondering again. The rapid events of

the day, Ups and downs, the look on Wayne’s face, left Coco with no real assurances.

Storm clouds invaded the sky, a light drizzle of rain brought relief from the summer heat that was baking Coco’s backside.

Small rivers and streams of rainwater, found gravity's path, flowing down her eyes, dropping onto the dry sand beneath her. The

beautiful tiki with the rainwater tears felt completely alone. The increasing winds forced down the fronds of the great and beautiful

palm beside her. With each gust came a sweeping circular motion, caressing her, giving some comfort and camaraderie. The trees

bright gold and greens slowly turned gray, the storm clouds blocked the sun.

72

Pete DooleyThousands of miles to the south, was Adam. Never envisioning himself joining the day-to-day drudgery of the working stiff,

he was in retreat. His new concern was seeking his own level in life, capturing lost opportunities, facing new challenges. He escaped

Crescent Beach on a trip to the Caribbean Islands.

Late in the fall, great storms are formed off the African coast; they churn and grow in the warm waters of the southern

Atlantic. Adam would prepare himself there, for the fall hurricane season and the deep winter swells from northeastern storms. He

made this trip, to this island, alone.

Adam had seen time anchor him down as life sped by. He had decided this was the year or one of the few years he had left, to

challenge the sea, while still in his physical prime. He convinced himself, the boys could wait. He needed some time for himself.

Evie? Well she could never get away; she had been consumed by the growth and expansion of Crescent Beach.

Back in a natural environment, running and diving, fasting and stretching, climbing the hills of his Caribbean Island, Adam

could cleanse his mind. He was meditating daily, pouring over the books of Confucius, the writings of Lao Tzu, the teachings of

Buddha. His quest was to create a trim and lean, mentally and spiritually peak performance athlete of himself, as he employed Yoga,

and practiced breathing exercises. Seek the way, the overlying theme, repeated throughout Adams studies and meditations. “Within

oneself a river flows,” “Cross the river to the other side,” “seek your way.” Days passed, and then weeks, the waves never appeared.

Adam waited; still seeking, still wondering, at the peak of conditioning, feeling answered within and prepared without.

A child looks at a mountain and sees a mountain,

An intelligent man looks at a mountain and sees many things,

A wise man looks at a mountain and sees a mountain. Confucius

One typical, lazy day, two little ladies appeared at the door of his small shack, bearing the zeal and vigor one might expect

from the door-to-door soldiers of Christendom. Adam was ready to strike, confident in his purity, armed with all forms of mystical,

upper level cosmic knowledge. He asked them what they could possibly offer him.

“Have you ever read the Bible?” perked one of the proselytizers.

“I always hear the wars and pain Christians have brought the world,” he responded to the glow-eyed, dipped in the water,

friends.

“What Revelations could there possibly be that I could use?” Cracked Adam.

One of the young ladies Offered, “Here, take this book and we will come back in a few days and talk to you about it.”

“Ok, fair enough,” accepted Adam, all the while planning numerous articulations and postulations to deflate this failed cult.

73

Beach Town BoomThese two were obviously not followers of the intelligent way.

With too much free time on his hands, he began reading the document, vilified and scorned by the intelligentsia and hip,

confident in his spiritual superiority.

Early on in his readings he caught himself reading statements not found in the beautiful prose and mystical wordings of his

more recent studies.

Instead of seek the way, he was reading, I am the way. Rather than, seek the truth, he was now hearing, I am the truth. All of

his previous readings had pointed towards, looking inward, meditate on the light. Now, in this book was written, I am the light. Who

was this poor man walking around the countryside making these statements? What about all these wars fought in his name? Yet, in

this book he was talking about turning the other cheek. If someone ask you for your purse, give him your cloak as well, if he asks you

to go with him a mile, go with him two.

Unwittingly Adam found himself reading chapter and verse, admonishing himself, for his selfish shortcomings, rather than

jacking himself up on levels of enlightenment. Before long, he was promising himself to never do this or that again, gleaned from

simple jots and tittles in the book. He found himself promising to change simple, selfish acts. He dug deeper through the scabs and

scar tissue layered on throughout his life. Then came the flood.

The enlightenment sought, the light, the cleansing, came with no warning. Purity and elevation, sought though meditations

and fasting, breathings and training, had now come in its own time, in its own form. He stumbled into simply believing. Washed pure

by doing nothing, seeking only to dismantle and rectify his faults. Just like Saul on the road to Damascus, harboring only malice in

heart towards the little ladies and their challenge to read the book, Adam was struck down, lifted up and simplified.

His whole life flashed before him, paths he had taken, the failures and fallings. He saw he was gently guided and lifted,

protected, always at the right time, to this very moment in time. In an instant, with the door just ajar, the light had shown in. Seek and

ye shall find. Enamored in the past with the mind of man and the self-promotion of man, now the simple things became visible. He

walked around the island, a leaf, its photosynthesis, its coloring, throbbing with life, all the brains on the earth could not reproduce the

simple purity and beauty in its functionality.

Evie! The boys, what am I doing here? I must get home!

A storm and the waves it might provide casually bypassed the islands. These storms follow random paths of heat and cold

vapor, atmospheric pressures morphing them in size and structure during their erratic journeys. The last hurricane of the year had

regenerated into a monstrosity, pulsing and swirling towards the mainland. “There is more of a challenge at home,” thought Adam, not

absolutely sure whether he meant the ocean, the repercussions of the storm, or the distant family.

“I will renew things with Evie,” thought Adam, “and get our family back together.” Warmed in memories of the simple gift

74

Pete Dooleylaid in his lap years before, all thoughts were now of Evie, the children, and the friends. So many gifts squandered in a one man, self-

quest. The garden had only been the first.

The plane ride home, and the car ride to Crescent Beach, seemed to take a year. The flight had to take a circuitous route to

avoid the storm, it having grown to the size of the state of Florida. “Man,” thought Adam, flying right into the storm of the century.

Greg Reed was treading new ground. Women were possessions; victories won or lost, conquests, notches in the belt. Evie

had been a long time goal. “What is that feeling, what is this drag, this obsession day in and day out with this woman? I can’t get her

out of my mind,” thought Reed. Somehow Evie had eluded the Greg Reed sexual aftermath test, she failed to disappear from thought

like the little chick at the bank had. What was her name?

Standing in the bank, Reed continued to draw a blank on the bank girl’s name. Baby or hun would have sufficed, he had

unwittingly broken the players code. He stumbled on some conquest’s name.

In times of smoother sailing, Reed would have said; “Hey babe, any checks on hold for me?” or “I have a large payment

coming in,” or, “hey sweetie,” or “Hey good lookin.” Not this time.

“Hey, a-a-er- are there any checks for me on hold?”

Reed knew it was all wrong. He was now locked in her stare, like many of the deer he would plug during the up coming

hunting season. The young lady, “what IS her name!” stared up from her desk. Reed’s mouth was half open.

“Ah, no, mister Reed, nothing-“Oh! Here‘s something.” She waived a check in her hand, as if it were a dirty washrag in need

of drying out.

Jasmine kept her head aimed straight ahead, facing Reed, but quickly snapped her eyes to the side, then back to the gulping

stud. It took only a second, but it was long enough to catch Crystal, her confidant, in brief eye contact. Crystal quickly looked down at

her two pudgy hands, reaching for some deposit slips to organize. Crystal then snapped a look to Mervice, a lady twice the size and

age of the young two, hoping she hadn’t heard. Crystal was not ready for another lecture, not now anyway.

The electric chain of visual contact, knowing glances, coupled with headshakes, silently wrapped around the room as if in a

nuclear centrifuge. Splitting atoms reach a point in time when they (far better explained by Al Einstein), split, a heartbreak in time.

Jasmine and Crystal had loudly prattled and planned Jasmine’s courtship and eventual landing of this prize package. The

arrogance of youth coupled with the, not yet left behind remnants of teen puppy love, swung the sweet child's emotions swirling in a

hormonic flux. Jasmine had the body, and at times, the mind of a young woman, yet she was indwelled by the child who still wore her

bunny slippers and cuddled with her Raggedy Anne doll to go to sleep at night. Sweet dreams of marriage and children were hatched

75

Beach Town Boomin a room on the second floor of former mayor Bob Murkee’s house; a room still filled with posters and cheerleader trophies. Jas

heard her parents, who were lost in the past, but she never really listened to their constant drone. “Be careful, find a nice boy, take

your time, see the world.” bla blah blah, just like Mervice.

Jas and Crystal would, at times, bring virtually the entire office into their child-like plannings of weddings and honeymoons

in yet undisclosed locales. Places that would be only finalized on the magic day, out in front of the Crescent Beach Community

Chapel. The best of their mental projections had Greg Reed sweeping the new Mrs. Jasmine Reed into the waiting, stretch limo, only

then; whispering in her ear the location that they would initiate their wedded bliss and endless future together.

Most of the older ladies would chuckle and interject admonitions to; “watch out, honey,” or, “It will all wear off.” Mervice

always took a stronger stance. She would constantly stall, freeze or water down the coffee-greased ramblings of the two young women

visualizing the prefect marriage, rewriting life to fit a romance novel. “The old bag...she probably couldn’t even get a man,” huffed

Crystal.

“Can you take care of that for me, hun? I’ll make it good tomorrow, OK.” Reed nodded towards the check (waving dishrag),

with a wink.

“Oh, hey, where you going to be tonight.”

“Smooth,” thought Reed, she’s back on track.

“Oh, I’ll be somewhere,” responded Jasmine, coolly.

She hadn’t heard a word from Mr. Reed since spending night in Mr. Reed’s new beach mansion, after his house warming.

Jasmine reminded herself to go and retrieve the bikini she had left there, soon. “Before all these checks start bouncing and he gets his

ass in a sling.” She almost said it out loud. “Ass in a sling,” was a terminology her dad had used quite often.

“One day, things will catch up with Reed and his ass will be in a sling,” often was the finishing flourish at the end of Dodge

Murkee’s Greg Reed diatribes.

Sling was putting it lightly. Reed had built a ponzi-like house of cards, supported and suspended in Rube Goldberg like

fashion. The piece of land financing his home, its value supported by inflated land values, was based on a growth-only-basis backing

the development of The Garden. Check floating was part of the nervous system within the shaky foundation. Similar to a shark,

stopping or pausing, in the great consumption process, could cause an implosion of epic proportions.

Jasmine casually flicked the check, written for nearly double the funds available, into the NSF or not sufficient funds box.

Adam, with time on the flight, time on the drive, envisioned his new existence; committed to Evie, committed to a closer

relationship to the boys. He went to the shack, looking for the boys, looking for his wife, no one at home. “Maybe Wayne and Beki

76

Pete Dooleyknow,” thought Adam. He headed off to the beach house. Adam ran from the river house, up the drive, turning south down A1A,

through sheets of rain, towards the beach house.

The winds were increasing. Trees were beginning their violent swings from the powerful winds. “Whew,” thought Adam,

“things are changing fast.” A black car sped past and pulled into Reed’s walled enclave. “Walls for keeping things out, or walls to

keep them in,” mused Adam. He glanced in through the gate as he passed, wondering how the palm was progressing and how Reeds

monstrosity was going to withstand any real storm. He saw two figures standing below the palm, inches apart, deep in conversation.

Adam’s chest squeezed tight. “Reed,” he thought to himself. “Evie,” he said, out loud. The rain began to pour down.

77

Beach Town Boom

THE STORM

Evie had been through a week of madness. The gathering monster at the city’s doorstep left her no time for the boys. It had

afforded even less time to consider the burning questions wrenching her soul. Evacuation was almost complete, she was on her way to

pick up the boys from Beki and organize the final departure.

Evie got a frantic call from Greg Reed, pleading with her to come to the garden and discuss something very important. Evie

wondered why she was still drawn to this guy. Uncomfortable about what she was going to say to Reed, she reasoned he was at least

owed some extra consideration. “What could Greg possibly have going on?” thought Evie. The turmoil and tension she was feeling

was matched by the increasing difficulty she was having, negotiating the large black vehicle through the accelerating winds and rain.

Evie eased her vehicle in through The Garden gateway. Reed was standing in the driveway, rain soaked, consumed in a

complete look of panic.

“Come in, I really have to talk to you about something,” he demanded, pulling her door open.

“No Greg, in light of recent situations I would rather not. As mayor, I really think, for your safety you should be evacuating,

now!” Evie felt a formal tone might set the mood and help get things off on the right track.

“No, Evie, it’s nothing like that, I need your help!” His look of despair deepened.

“Don’t worry about your house, there is nothing you can do now, Greg,” she interjected.

“No, it, it’s trouble with the bank!” He had to yell over the howling wind.

The two were partially sheltered behind the house; sheets of rain and spray were coming off the ocean. The large palm tree’s

fronds were swinging franticly over their heads. Evie felt oddly embarrassed and deflated. Dripping in front of her was someone with

whom she had the most intimate of interaction with, yet was unconcerned about their delicate situation. Reed, the man who had every

thing going for him, began sobbing in a panic. Evie shook her head, refocusing her thoughts. “What is the matter with me, am I

crazy?”

78

Pete Dooley“The wha-, the bank?” she yelled. “Wait a minute!” she thought, “the storm of the century churning right in front of this guys

house and he is worried about some problem with the bank?”

“Greg, Greg, it can’t be that bad, you need to get out of here! Now!” Evie, soaking wet, glared into the eyes of the

whimpering Reed. “An entire city to care for during an emergency, and you want me to worry about your bank account!” Evie began

to focus in on Reed, sheets of rain whipping her face. She was seeing things more clearly, as if there was nothing hindering her view

for the first time in a long time. She studied the panicked, pitiful creature, staring back at her, hoping for some kind of reaction. Reed,

grabbed her arm and pulled her close, so she could hear him over the roar of the ocean and howling wind.

“No, it’s big trouble! The bank, this storm, my insurance. I, I, was wondering, I mean, I need you to do the same thing with

the property over there, that you did for me here.” He gestured towards the compound next door. “I- I, need collateral.”

In the midst of complete panic, Reed could maintain a smooth delivery. The panic part, was real though, and freely was

allowed to come to the surface. Reed calculated panic would help promote the pitch. Insurance, sounded much better than checks

bouncing on leveraged properties. “She’ll pull through for me,” Reed felt he was turning the tide.

“What! What are you asking me to do?” Evie pulled away, turning to leave.

“Greg, you need to get out of here, right now! I have to get back to city hall and finish up with my duties. Please leave!”

There was a strong grip on Evie’s arm.

Evie turned. Adam!

There was a blinding flash of lightning, followed by a massive clap of thunder. Reed took two steps back and almost fell. He

stumbled to a stop, clipped in a similar move to one of the cheap shots he had perfected on the football field. Only this time it was a

beautiful carved log, leaning against the wall, tripping him up.

“Evie, let’s go,” said Adam.

“Hey Adam...I,” Reed tried to say something, but realized the situation was slipping from his grasp.

Adam said nothing. He opened Evie’s car door and guided her in. He then walked around the vehicle and got in the passenger

side, taking one last look at Reed. Soaking wet, hunched over, Reed had his own personal storm cloud over his head.

“Essene, what is going on? Is something going on with you and this guy?” Adams voice was hard as steel.

Backing out of the walled compound, Evies heart began to leap in her chest, pounding and skipping beats. Essene? Evie

thought; “oh, my god, Adam had never called me that, he must know. This is the last breath of our life together, we have been falling

apart and I have closed the door to our life together.” She couldn’t speak.

79

Beach Town BoomThe vehicle was rocking back and forth, as if they were in the middle of some riot scene. Leaves, branches thrashing the car,

lightning flashing, mad screaming hordes of wind gusts; walls of rain were pelting the roof. The vehicle was rocking back and forth,

like her life. Evie still had to finalize the evacuation of city hall.

“I mean, how far has it gotten? Are you? Have you?” Evie could only look at Adam. His jaw tight, eyes open wide, he was

looking straight ahead. In an evil converse way they were communicating the same way they used to, in unfinished sentences.

Knowing each other’s thoughts, by just a look or a gesture. Now the words not spoken, were avoided, the truth contained too much

pain.

“Yes, yes, it got out of hand. It- it.” Evies voice trailed off, her lips curled up. Tears joined the rainwater descending from her

hair, flowing the very moment Adam had said, Essene. Now true pain, expressed from a crushed heart, through a closed throat, her

voice came as if from far away. All this confrontation, lack of explanation, opening up and closing down, seemed to take hours. In

reality it had only taken minutes, in the rain. Evie’s entire being was beginning to melt.

“But, Adam.” No answer.

“Adam”

“What”

“I love only you.” I know that now.”

“Oh, that's good.” Adam was thinking of how to keep this marriage to his only love in tact, but the pain in his chest was

overwhelming. Anything he said would sound petty or vindictive. Adam wasn’t sure any more, if his response was cynical or to the

point.

“Adam! We have to get the boys and evacuate. I have the police at city hall waiting for me now.” Grasping at anything, Evie

said desperately, "Maybe we can talk, all together, as a family, even during this turmoil."

“We have to get the boys out of here,” agreed Adam.

“Is Wayne staying?” asked Adam slowly under his breath.

“Yeah, you know him, he has been through so many things like this, and he is going to stay on in case anyone needs help.”

Evie, the mayor and friend, sighed, doubting that anyone could hold on throughout this maelstrom.

A leaden thought stopped Evie’s heart for one beat, she gasped for breath, and she now saw the storm through Adam’s eyes.

The love, the "forever love," they once had, was being battered about by the hurricane of their personal turmoil. A voice in her head

kept repeating, "hold on, echoing, hold on."

Any change of subject, any chance to speak in some form of normalcy, took the focus off the open wounds exposed. The

vehicle came to a stop outside the beach house. Evie shook, a chill from the soaking rain? Was it the heart-stopping events of the last

few moments? She wasn't sure. The numbing thought of Greg Reed conniving that she somehow could, or would, give Wayne's

80

Pete Dooleyproperty away, added anger to the swirling vortex of disorientation.

“I'm going to stay,” said Adam, from so deep in his throat that he didn’t recognize his own voice.

“Oh Adam!” Evie reached over and touched his arm.

He had the door propped open with his knee, battling against the wind.

“I’ll get the boys, Its- a- al’-,” his voice trailed off.

In truth Adam didn’t think anything would be, in any former fashion, all right, for a long time to come.

“I just need some time to think, and Wayne will need some help.”

Adam let out a self-degrading chuckle to himself. His self-esteem had dropping to new lows, coinciding, with the

atmospheric pressure of the storm upon them. The vision in his head was of Wayne with the two logs in tow under his arm, while

bump on a log, loser Adam, was falling over himself, the day of the land clearing incident. "I need a friend," thought Adam, “I am

down to so very few.”

Adam leveraged himself out of the door and let the wind slam it shut. He was making rough headway towards the beach

house, weaving and nearly being lifted from the ground numerous times. He felt a hot sensation on his arm. It was Evie. She had

slipped her hand into the crux of his elbow. Adam thought she would wait in the car for him to return with the boys, “ Just another

miscalculation and miscommunication,” he mused. The storm was far too loud to discuss anything now. He opened the back door; the

rear side of the house was in a vacuum. The door opened, warmth and light, a temporary eerie silence within.

“Dadeeeee!” The boys were in mid charge.

“Momeee!” The secondary dive was towards the soaked Evie.

“Thanks, Bek. We really have to be getting out of here,” blurted Evie, a weary smile crossing her face for the first time, it

seemed, in days, even weeks.

“I'll get you something warm and dry. You look terrible. Adam you too. Come on!” The Wiz was now in command.

Time was of the essence, so the Wiz shepherded them into the side bedroom. She tossed a dress to Evie and pilfered

Mark’s laundry for anything Adam could wear. Two towels were added to the mix.

“Come on, hurry it’s now or never,” commanded Beki.

Evie tore out of her soaking clothes in unison with Adam. Naked, she reached for the towel and began to dry herself, pausing

for a second, feeling his eyes upon her. She turned to see Adam naked and still in the form, if not bigger and stronger than the first day

she met him. She was not able to discern if the drop of water running down his cheek was a remnant of his water filled hair, or a tear.

Evie temporarily lost all sense of time and the concerns with the events bearing down on her. She was naked before Adam, and he

before her, not unlike the first day they met. She tried to read his eyes.

“Mommy, the storm!” The two energy balls had banged the door open and charged in. Evie; still staring at Adam, reached

81

Beach Town Boomonto the bed and slipped on the warm, dry dress, in one flowing motion. Adam bent over pulled up the baggy, paint covered,

drawstring pants, dropping a Mexican wedding shirt over his head. He felt the same feverishly hot hand on his cheek as the shirt fell

down over his head. Evie had swept across the room, again staring directly into his eyes. He could only stare back. Evie was now

rocked back and forth, as was Adam, by the tugging and shoving of the boys.

“Come on, you two,” yelled the Wiz, “we have to go.”

Their eyes, still locked, both were caught up in the swirl and torrent of the massing energy of events far beyond their control.

They were pulled further apart, each in their own whirlpool, downward and away, into the main room.

“Here, put on this raincoat,” barked the Wiz, desperately trying to get the two focused on the emergency at hand. She tossed

one to Adam as well. Evie began to put hers on.

“I’m staying,” said Adam, crisp and clear.

The room fell silent. The howl of the wind outside became so strong the walls began to throb like Evies temples. The beach

house, its ancient pilings clawed deep into the dunes of Crescent Beach, rocked back and forth. The motion, rope a dope style,

resembled the great boxer of old, leaning back against the ring ropes to absorb the violent onslaught. The ancient structure rocked to

the limits of its wood pilings, to the very limit of it’s last wood fiber, only to rock back into the next howling wind gust. This dance

had preserved the home, throughout endless storms over the years. Evie wondered if she was going to faint. Fainting was something

she had never considered possible before the events of this day, and its all-consuming downward spiral.

She looked around the room, and was captured within Wayne’s eyes. Evie froze. A cold chill filled her veins, all breath

escaped her. He knew. The room began spinning; the storm had torn everything from its foundation. Evie’s knees had no sinew, her

arms failed to extend, no softening of the fall. Halfway to the floor an arm was around her shoulder, floating her weightlessly up and

towards the back door. She was wrapped in a warm embryo, and separated from the rest of the room by a wall of Wayne. He leaned

down and wrapped her in an all-encompassing hug. First a breath, next a pulse, feeling and function retuned to her extremities. Evie

tested with toes, next ankles, then legs, steadying torsos balance, regaining resistance to gravity's pull.

“Everything is going to be fine. You have a lot to do, go ahead now,” his tone soft and reassuring.

Evie reached high as she could and grabbed Wayne around the neck. She pressed her head against his chest, never wanting to

let go. After a moment, Wayne leaned back. Gripping her shoulders, he slowly redirected her towards the quest at hand. On cue, the

Wiz initiated a march towards the back door, herding the little ones with light taps and well placed shoves. Michael, with a grumble,

wedged through the hugging, mish mash of chattering disorganization clustering at the back door. He popped the main door open and

grabbed the screen door handle. He was immediately yanked out into the night. A two-handed grip on the screen door and two ancient

hinges held, matching Michael's strength and will, until feet eventually found ground.

Wayne circled his arm over the frozen-in-place, evacuees. “Michael, go with them.” Michael, stunned, wide eyed, rapidly

82

Pete Dooleyrattled his head up and down.

Adam swept one of the boys up and charged towards the car, yelling out loud, “Gaaaaa.” Hoping a little mirth would dispel

the concern reflected in the children's faces. Evie grabbed the other stunned child. Michael wrapped his arms around the two ducking

and running women, his back taking the brunt of the flying palm fronds and stinging rain. Adam wedged the car door open with his

body, and chucked the laughing boy into the vehicle. Evie slid her squirming child into a seat belt and sat down in the passenger seat.

Again her hot hand reached out and touched Adams cheek. He reached in, and gently rubbed his hand over the top of her head. He

spun and looked back to see if everyone was securely in the car and slowly let the door close, using most of the strength he could

muster.

Evie stared out of the clouded window, at Adams diminishing form, as the vehicle backed down the drive. He stood below

the flickering outside light. Evie stared at the scene, as it slowly became a miniature, eventually becoming a small glimmer of light.

The storm and all it’s screeching tumult, eventually consumed their vehicle.

"Adieu, amour.”

Adam spun in through the beach house door; Wayne was at the ham radio. The barking squawk coming from the console was

the concerned, but steady voice of Botchis.

“So, she’s on her way?” garbled the speaker, the size of a fifty-cent piece.

“Yeah, you'll be over on the mainland in no time,” guffawed Wayne. “I hear they have donuts the size of Frisbees over

there.”

“I don’t care what they have over there as long as it’s warm and safe,” crackle-squawked the reply.

“Oh, I see them now.”

“Good, now get outa town,” yelled Wayne, ending with a laugh.

“Ten four. You won’t have to tell me twice,” yelled the voice on the other side. The last parts of the conversation were barely

audible over the thumping roar of the thrashing arrhythmic winds. Wayne felt confident that Michael and Botchis would safely carry

their valuable cargo to safer higher ground. Adam began to say something. Wayne interrupted the clench faced, dripping, Adam.

“Hey! If you are going to hang around here, why don’t you do something useful? Go and get him!” Wayne gestured towards

the deck through a small seam in the boards over the front taped up windows.

“Holy Crap,” blurted Adam.

The exploding sky, filled with scars of lightning, cast just enough light to silhouette a figure in a wheel chair, out on the

dock!

83

Beach Town Boom“How in the hell did he get out there?” Adam was cracking shins and bumping thighs against table and chair on his way to

the back door. Wayne shrugged, fussing with dials and knobs on his vintage radio.

“What's with him!” thought Adam. He slipped on the rain slicker and wedge/dove out of the back door. He was whipped

around; his body nearly pulled the door off its hinge, before he got a grip on the ground. The stinging sand, blasted up his flapping,

cotton, draw string pants. The wind ripped the top of his Mexican wedding shirt. Now, outside, turning his head to avoid looking

directly into the stinging rain, Adam paused for a second, in shock.

Part of the wall next door, had been knocked down. Water from the abnormally high tides washed directly into Reed's house.

The hurricane shutters had already been stoved in. His pool, at sea level, was wholly pushed out, above the ground. In a flash of

lightning, Adam detected the back corner of Reed's roof flapping in the wind. The leveling of the dunes in front of his structure

created a funnel effect. The swirling currents and abnormally huge waves were washing freely over the property, slamming against the

back wall. “That will be gone soon,” thought Adam.

Admonishing himself for his loss of focus, slapped by a strong gust that filled the hood of his rain slicker, Adam leaned

forward and flapped his way towards the yelling pirate on the deck.

“Sons a bitches!” Mark was waving his fist in the air.

“Bastards!” Blinking through the rain, beard filled with streams of water.

“Haw, Haw, HAw, that’ll show ya,” Mark leaned forward in his chair, as if to make a point to the storm. “Build all this crap

up and it will just be blown down.”

He glared down the beach at the concrete structures poking up into the sky from the dunes of Crescent Beach. Adam, for a

second, thought he was quoting the Bible, or more directly describing his life. Kaboom, a great slap of thunder and a flash. The old

adage, one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three (you get the point). The equation: {one Mississippi = One mile}. The flash lightning

coincided with the clap of thunder instantaneously. It was here. Adam took pause at the weirdness, “Does a stroke make you crazy,

how did Mark get here, what in the world is he doing?”

“Hey Mark, lets get inside, its pretty crazy out here,” he yelled.

“I bin in worse shit 'n this, in a tea pot; in a damn tea pot off the end of the Indian Ocean, fifty foot seas,” yelled Mark,

turning to Adam.

“I know, I know, half humoring the old salt and knowing everything he was saying was probably true.

“C’mon Mark, Wayne sent me out to get you.” Trying the authority figure ploy.

Adam was at times, with random gusts, feeling his feet lift off the ground.

“All right. All right,” shouted Mark. He began to lift himself out of the locked down wheelchair.

“No, no! I’ll get you.” Adam lurched towards the now standing, though unsteady, Mark. The subject became moot by the

84

Pete Dooleytime Adam reached the swaying grouch. Mark’s wheelchair flew rattling and cracking into the black night. As if rehearsed, Mark,

wrapped his arm around Adams shoulder anchoring him to the ground. Adam was stunned at Mark’s stability and ability to stand.

“Hey Mark you’re getting better,” yelled Adam, trying to get Mark on to a more positive plain.

“Where’s your little wife, man? I love that little tart.”

Mark acted if it was a good night for a bonfire and a barbecue. Adam was smiling now, at the absurdity of it all. Mark’s

attitude about the entire storm was one of nonchalance.

“She’s left for the mainland,” yelled Adam.

Mark was inches away from his face. He stopped their struggling, lurching trek towards the beach house.

Adam had his arm around Mark’s shoulders; Mark had his arm around the back of Adams neck. Mark leaned back and

looked into Adams eyes. Through their closeness, even with winds in the high double digits, Adam could smell the cognac or vodka

on the old pirate’s breath. “He shouldn’t be drinking,” thought Adam.

“Go get her, man.” They both stared at each other. Adam made no reply.

“Don’t let her get away,” Mark was articulating slowly, as in; don’ T, leT, Her, geT, A -way, all the while semi-karate

chopping Adam’s chest, with his partially curved, stroke side hand.

“Ok, Ok, I won’t, and I will, ok, Ok!” Adam patted Mark on the shoulder and directed him towards the beach house.

They were underway again, Adam resembling a tugboat nursing a great battleship into port. There was another flash of

searing light. Adam could see, out of the side of his eye, the north side of Reed’s house buckling down. The storm was sculpting the

structure as if it were a football player on the field during a time out. “Hey you guys, take a knee.”

“Hey, hero.” Mark’s greeting to Wayne, as he struggled to enter the beach house. Adam was getting slammed repeatedly

about the head and shoulders, by frond and door alike. Both hands were needed to negotiate and boost the soaking wet, swaying hulk

through the flapping doors.

“Hey sailor how's the weather?”

Wayne never looked up from the knobs and swinging gauges on his vintage World War II radio. The room exploded in

laughter. Adam leaned forward, getting cramps in his stomach. He laughed so hard he pitched forward, hands on his knees. He began

to question if the pain was from another source: hoisting Mark, not eating for hours, the stress and heartbreak of the day.

Mark barked out, “Hey kid, nice trousers.”

Adam looked down. Coated with sand and leaves, soaked and sagging, sadly draped the one-size-fits-all, draw string, muslin

pants. He again doubled over cramping in laughter. Wayne had spun his office chair around to get a glimpse of the fashion fatality,

huge grin on his face. The radio began to click and scratch, its haze of static morphed into a familiar voice.

“Wayne, Wayne, You there? Hello Wayne, can you hear me? Its Evie!” She sounded a million miles away, as if the signal

85

Beach Town Boomwas coming from Mars.

“Yeah, sweetie, I mean Mrs. Mayor,” Wayne was still in full, goof off mode, “You on the mainland? You guys make it all

right?”

“Ah-yeah, Bek and Mike and the police are on the mainland, ah, there is a little problem, though. The boys and I are stuck in

city hall.”

Wayne spun without a sound, save the click-thunk of the microphone bipped by his elbow. He dove headlong across the

room.

Wayne might not have reached Adam had not Mark stuck his good foot out, at the instant he saw Adam diving for the door

handle. The adrenaline charge helped Mark more or less lean forward and land on Adam’s writhing upper torso. Teamwork was

needed; Wayne had only a loose grip on the sagging, stretching pants, and the toes of one foot.

“Wait, wait! You can’t go there now, you’ll get killed, just wait, we’ll need a plan.”

Adam was trying to squirm towards the door. Wayne crawled up over Adam and secured his grip. Adam realized he wasn’t

going anywhere with these two on him. He relaxed. Mark patted him on the head two, three times. Mark and Wayne both got up

slowly, Adam remained on the floor face down. “Plan? What plan? How was there going to be a plan out of this mess?” thought

Adam.

“Adam, Adam are you there? Wayne, is Adam there?” her voice was soft and soothing, as if she might be peering into a dark

bedroom, on a warm, summer evening, to be assured that her love was waiting for her.

“Adam, We’ll be all right, I love you, we love you.” The signal faded, Wayne franticly began flipping switches and adjusting

dials. The radios swirling sound, hissing and popping, lost it’s footing, overcome by the horrendous howl and thunderous pounding of

the ocean, now right outside the door.

“Listen kid, the storm surge hasn’t even hit, everything is peaking right now, and you can’t go anywhere. That building

should hold.” Wayne thought some sort of an explanation might help. Adam slid up to a sitting position on the floor, burying his head

against his forearms. There was nothing he could do.

Evie had arrived at city hall to see the two nervous officers standing by in the building. She had Andy Botchis drive her

vehicle and take Mike and Beki on to the mainland. She ran upstairs to secure her office, her two boys in tow. Bolus nervously waited

for her outside, in the rocking squad car.

Lights appeared behind him.

“What's this, National Guard?” Bolus growled. He reached for his door handle. There was a quick rapping on the window. He

rolled it down, one half of a turn.

86

Pete Dooley“Is the mayor in the building, officer?” Bolus recognized the vehicle and it’s owner. It was that hotshot, developer guy, Greg

Reed.

“Yeah, I’m waiting on her now,” he yelled through the window, open only enough to stick his nose through.

“Well you can go now, I’ll take care of her.” Reed cupped his hands to project over the howling wind.

“You sure?” Bolus was in no mood to argue. He wanted out of there. “This is way beyond the line of duty,” he reasoned,

“hanging around in the middle of a damn hurricane, Besides Reed’s got a machine that could handle this storm way better than the

Crown Victoria can. Damn big shot.”

“OK, but I’d get her moving right now.”

Bolus pulled the shifter down to D, stomping the accelerator to the floor. Water was pouring down Minuteman like a river.

He saw a light in the LoCal bar flash for just a second as he made his turn towards A1A. “If any idiots are still in this town they are on

their own,” he spat. He made it to the crown of A1A, aiming the police cruiser to the north causeway, and hopefully out of town.

Bolus was petitioning The Lord, “Please don’t let this thing stall, please don’t let this thing stall.” Visibility at zero, chin against the

steering wheel, he strained to see through the sheets of rain.

Reed rammed through the front door of city hall, the only door unlocked. Immediately he dropped into stealth mode, slipping

down the hall to the Department of Records. The adrenaline coursed through his spinal column making his hair stand on end. A

massive snort of cocaine, consumed just after hatching his plan, gave Reed the much-needed synthetic aura of invincibility needed to

follow his plot to its loathsome end. When he pulled up across the street, seeing the sketchy cop cowering out front, and Evie still

rummaging through the building, he chuckled at his good fortune. He had been waiting for an opportunity to break in and take the

papers he needed. Now, everything was falling into place.

The light in the LoCal was initiated by events earlier in the day: Rex and Lenny had been reunited with their lovely

counterparts; the gap toothed Sheena and the, not so sure about all this, Sam. Lu was already encamped in the LoCal. He had; after all,

created with malice and forethought, his tiki display out in front of the bar. The close proximity to the gallery, in which he was no

longer employed, and the hated bar, a thorn in Wayne’s side, was perfect, calculated Lu.

The owner of the bar, Cal, had no real control over the developments leading up to the crisis at hand. Cal was caught up in a

situation rapidly cascading into nowhere: Cal Ready tried to remain comfortable, hoping to ride out the storm in his back storage

room. His hands were taped; he had duct tape across his mouth. He cursed himself forever opening a bar in this crappy little beach

town. He didn’t even like the ocean. Every time he went to the beach, it reminded him of the gay days parade in Orlando and how

87

Beach Town Boomseverely his fine white skin had burnt, then blistered, “damn thong.” He cursed himself as a failure; just like mother had told him he

was destined to be.

Calvin had sent out all the right signals, he spread the word throughout the gay community. He, opened up next to an art

gallery, for Gods sakes! All he drew as clientele were bar hags and misplaced losers. These thoughts forced Cal to begin sobbing

uncontrollably. The huffs of breath seeping out from behind the duct tape began making a rapid, farting sound. This additional

indignation made Cal wail all the more. He hunched forward and began to bang his head against the wall. This act of desperation only

caused more pain. He slumped further down onto the floor in a fetal position. Now, both of his deer- skinned loafers had slipped off

his pink feet. Cal’s white, silver-tab Levis were stained from exterior as well as interior soiling.

Lu had been sitting at a table, wallowing in self-pity, a column of smoke rising past his dark brooding eyes. The Crescent

Beach four, released, rejoined, filled with tax payer-funded baloney, duly processed by the powers that be, careened into the LoCal

bar. Their eyes adjusted to the dark interior, not much needed, as the storm had created an almost night-like atmosphere outside. They

stopped and stared across the room.

“You, you summbich, you the one what started all this!” Rex was doing the talking. Len’s new tomato head facial and

swollen lips made it too painful for his usual insights and articulations. Len did try to speak, his lips, pursed and swollen, moved up

and down, a bubbling sound ensued, he resembled a waffle-faced goldfish. All four moved towards Lu, the hissing, screeching

femsluts shuffling behind as a rear guard. Lu jumped to his feet. He had about enough over the last few days and weeks. The lead

antagonist stopped immediately.

“Hey! Think about it! We all got a problem with the same place.” Lu violently gestured towards the studio with his thumb.

“Yeah,” blurted Len, actually it sounded like “mbwyeah,” his swollen lips had begun to fuse together.

“Yeah, Yeahoo! Let’s party an forget about all this crap,” said Sam, stepping forward as the peacemaker.

“Let’s have a dayum Hurricane party,” gargled Sheena, making eye contact with Lu, sending the, ya know, not so subtle

message.

Sheenz made it a point not to smile; she still was without the front part of her grill. She stuck her tongue out and up over her

tooth gap, quite assured that the stud that backed down the boys, was giving her the once over.

“Hold it! Hold it, folks. I am closing this place down. It’s much too dangerous, I suggest you get to someplace safe,

as soon as possible, because I am shutting this mother down.” Cal, the owner, was proud of his professional take-charge approach.

Cal had no intention of being in this town one moment more than needed. He cursed to himself that he had even opened on

such a day. The growing pack of ner-do-wells quieted momentarily, though making no overt recognition of Cal's broadcast. They slid

to the back of the establishment.

88

Pete Dooley“We gunna have a parteeee,” mumbled Sheena in a husky whisper. She shook her bony hips holding her two arms over her

head as if she had some breasts to undulate. Sam leaned against her and snorted, “You some crazy beyuch.”

“Can either of you shut them up!” hissed Lu, thumbing over his shoulder towards the giggling slosh pack. They began to

assemble at the table furthest from the glaring owner.

“Hey baby, lighten up, we been through a lot today an we wanna get loose.” Sheena stuck her chin out to make the point. Lu

made eye contact with Rex. Rex elbowed Sheena and Sam back. Len’s momentum made him bump the table with his belly. He

refused to sit down. His rather small genitalia were still aching from the great acrobatic move dumb ass Rex had pulled.

“You want to get him?” Lu’s eyebrows rose, drawing Len into the conversation.

Len looked over at Rex, their eyes locked; both nodded. They were in.

Sam whined, ”Whoa boy, aint you been in enough crap lately?”

Lu again looked at Rex.

Rex, put his arm around Sam’s shoulder, gently sending her the message; this here is men's talk, baby, why don’t you go

powder your nose. He aimed her away from the gathering of minds.

“Excuse me, excuse me, I don’t think you heard me!” Cal was livid. “These morons will have to go,” he thought.

Lu stood up. Saying nothing, he moved directly into Cal’s path. Rex got the pack of dogs, animal transmission and leaned in

towards the angry bar owner. Len bumped past them both and slurred,”fgyegg,” spit curled down the side of his cheek. Len and Rex

shoved, poked, and took a couple of air swings, herding Cal into a small back room. They found the ever-present roll of duct tape and

secured the stunned, well kept, stylish Cal in a heap in the broom closet.

During Cal’s arrest and incarceration by the leather-clad duo, Lu slipped back and resituated himself on the stool. He turned

and looked at the two skanks, both were smiling ear to ear at his display of true Alpha dog manhood.

“Yeehoo, Let’s party,” said the short, fat one. Lu ignored the celebration of the two floozies and their gripping and hugging

of returning Len and Rex. The scene resembled a four-person V.E. day. Lu was reveling in his own elation, engulfed in euphoria

similar to what A. Hitler must have felt after shoving the French around in W.W.II

“Look, all the cops from across the street should be gone soon, and when that happens, we’ll go over to the studio and do him

in right.”

Lu eyed his confident warriors, fresh from the battle of Cal. They were ready.

“Shore is stormin out there, looks like somebody’s leavin.” Sam had peeled back the blinds on the one small window, rarely

opened, an irritant to the all day drinking trogs.

“Wha-, shu’, GET her!” Lu charged across the room.

Sam gave Lu her best coquettish pout, ”Hey mayun, chill out.”

89

Beach Town BoomLu whipped the curtain closed, the police cruiser continued up Minuteman Causeway. “Good,” thought Lu after a moment,

“he didn’t turn around.”

Sheena still had her eye on the new meat. She clickety clacked up behind Lu and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Calm down

sugar, let’s party.”

Lu, not wanting to break up the ambiance, gently removed her arms and eyed the two warriors.

“You ready?”

“Yup,” Rex said.

“Yumhum.”

“I got my tools right outside,” cracked Lieutenant Lu.

“Tools? What the hell? Who needs tools,” thought Rex to himself. He elbowed Lenno, they both shrugged.

Lu jammed the bar door open and disappeared into the sideways sheets of rain. Rex and Len charged along behind. The door

was on its return course. They didn’t slow, that would have been pretty embarrassing in front of the girls. From outside the bar it was

Len’s semi- healed forehead scrape that made first contact with the door. Rex had the surmisal to adjust to a sideways cant as they

reached the point of no return. They almost wedged in the door like some three stooges epic. The two stylishly regained control,

helped by the drag coefficient of the hurricane force winds. Both stumbled into the back of Lu, who was standing, staring at the studio

and gallery. The equation for this phenomenon is (E=Mc2). They all stared at Sentry.

Inside the studio there was absolute terror. Initial votes of confidence in Sentry’s ability to serve and protect, soon

deteriorated into a mood of impending doom. Those in the gallery knew something was up as well.

Michael, Beki and Wayne had spent hours earlier in the day, lifting everything to the highest tables and workbenches

throughout both buildings.

“They must be preparing for Lu and the fire,” calculated chief. The rumbling roof and rattling doors added to the terror-filled

eyes around the studio.

The gallery group was not in much better spirits. High ground in the gallery was the ledge in the front window, used for

display. The gallery pieces peeked through the window, taped to protect the glass, and jammed together resembling immigrants on

Ellis Island. Most had full view of the exploding electric light show going on outside. Trees were slapped to the ground then flipped

upright in a surreal dance of destruction. This night belonged to the storm.

A flash of lightning, a clap of thunder, Adam looks up.

“Wayne, we have to go, something is wrong.”

90

Pete Dooley “Soon, kid, we have to wait for the tidal surge and the eye of the storm to move past. Maybe it will let up some, now that the

storm is partially over land.”

Wayne was offering straws for Adam to grasp. He knew the tidal surge can wipe away everything in its path, and later, the

pull back of the tide can be even more powerful.

Crash. A flash of light illuminates Lu’s furrowed brow. Chin down against his chest, he marches forward and grabs the studio

door, inserting his key. He rattles it around in the lock. Punching the door, he whips around and stomps back towards his tool pile.

“Damn, they changed the lock.”

He passes his two minions, who have begun hacking and thrashing against the huge Sentry. Rex swings and cracks a pole

into Len, the wind now controlling its direction. Legend among the tikis claims Sentry grabbed the pole and whacked Len in the back

of his head.

Flash. One hundred eyes from the gallery window are staring wide at the battle unfolding before them. The crowd has now

obstructed the Hawaiian warrior tiki’s view; they are normally the guardians of the gallery entrance. The gathering at the window

formed a bit of a coconut telegraph, relaying the events of the night, through the Hawaiians to the cowering artwork further back in the

room.

“Sentry knocked the fat guy down!” blurted one tiki, to cheers.

“Beeg fella mash warrior, winnin big time!” The reedited broadcast.

“Lu is trying to get in the studio. He stopped, he is going back,” another carving observed.

“Sentry run no good Lu off property! Runnin away!” yelled the Hawaiians.

There was a loud cheer from the, gallery.

Flash of light, kaboom of thunder, Rex tries to regain his footing; the winds are too strong. The pole he is using tips him back

into the Carissa hedge.

Lu returns with a hammer and chisel.

“What are you guys doing?” He yells at the top of his voice.

“We was goin’ to ask you that too.” Len was now rubbing his soaked head, swaying in stupor and wind.

Rex, in the bushes, is wrestling with the pole, attempting to regain his footing, shod in one bare foot and one made-in-China

flip flop.

Through Lu’s malicious rage, he failed to notice what was becoming all too clear. Engulfed in what was rapidly becoming

the height of the storm, he was dealing with some dyed in the wool imbeciles.

Lu paused; he turned slowly and focused his glare on the Sentry. The tiki’s bold eyes fearlessly stared back, a huge smile of

91

Beach Town Boomconfidence on its face. It might have been the storm, the lightning, or Lu’s malicious rage, but now each lightning flash made the face

look more and more, like Wayne’s.

“Hey,” speaking as if he were dealing with two four year olds, “You know you can’t beat a tiki from the front, you have to

get them from the rear. They can’t turn.”

Amazed that he could still connive in such dire times, Lu felt almost giddy.

“C’mon boys let’s get my chain saw.”

Len and Rex were relieved that their new leader, though lost and confused at first, had renewed his focus to the task at hand.

“Killin’ that damn Monster Tiki!”

Evie had the boys hold hands, as she weaved through the building that now seemed to sigh and heave with the violent wind

gusts. “I hope this thing is here when we get back,” thought Evie to herself. The turmoil and noise silenced the boys, now quiet and in

tow.

“We will be done in no time boys, mommy just has to lock up.”

She pulled her office door closed with one hand, the other in contact with the chain of boys. They hurried down the hall and

were just about to head out the front door, when Evie saw a light on down the hall. Ever the public servant, Evie thought, why waist

the cities electricity, unaware the power would soon fail. With one hand she eased the door open. Her heart sank, her other hand

unconsciously tightened on the little fingers.

“Greg!”

Reed looked up for an instant then returned to tearing through the files.

“What are you doing in here? You have no right, this is against the-.”

The lights began flashing on and off.

“This is no time, I don’t know what you are doing, but this is becoming really dangerous, you have to get out now!” Evie was

almost pleading.

“Evie, Evie...listen to me.” Reed was holding an ancient document high over his head.

“Listen, this can be our future, we can own this town, you and me. We can change the way it looks, the way it runs. A- Adam

and Wayne; they are going to die here, its you and me, its always been you and me, you can even bring the kids, I love you, he doesn't,

I, I. We work together on, so many things. You have to see it...with this I will be starting over again, and I want you to be in

everything with me.” A storming torrent of thought and desperation flooded forth from Reed.

Boom! The nighttime sky was filled with a huge explosion of lightning and sparks. The telephone pole in front of the

building tips and leans, crashing to the ground. The boys, gathered close to Evie, clench tightly to her. Calmly, Evie looks directly into

92

Pete DooleyReed’s squinting eyes, sweat pouring down his face.

“Greg, I love Adam, I have always loved Adam. Please give me that, you have to go.”

Reed was feeling neck spasms overriding his reasoning process, another technique he developed on the football field.

“I‘m going to grab this bitch and get out of here, eventually she will come to her senses.” He spat to himself.

There was a violent implosion, Boom, crash. The window; installed by Greg Reed construction, just below the wind specs on

the blue prints, blew inward, showering the room with glass shards. The savings on the city hall project had given Greg enough extra

profit to put a hefty down payment on his Hummer.

Evie dove to the floor, behind a table tipped on its side by the initial force of the blast. It deflected the sharp projectiles of

deadly, below spec, glass. She wrapped herself around the boys.

The depressurization and ensuing wind torrent swirled the entire room’s contents. Reed was thrown sprawling. As he fell, his

hand opened wide like so many times during the big games when had dropped the ball on interceptions. The document, formerly in

Reed’s hands flew into this new turbulent atmosphere.

“If you had hands, I wouldn’t have you on defense,” coach used to tell him.

Reed rolled over onto his right shoulder and saw the deed to Wayne’s compound spin upward, and join the exiting fanfare of

papers. Dancing out into the darkness, out into the storms howling winds.

Evie had to yell over the screaming wind. “Greg! Greg! Are you all right?”

In robotic movements Reed silently stepped over table and chair, past Evie and the boys, as if they were additional furniture

tossed across the floor.

Stunned, Evie gathered the kids and sped down the stairs, towards the front door. Pushing the door open with all her strength,

she stepped outside scanning the street for officer Bolus. There was no one in sight. The wind sucked the breath out of her lungs. Evie

wheeled the boys back into the building, and ran back up the stairs towards her office, dragging the boys behind. Halfway down the

second floor hallway she noticed the ceiling and roof violently being yanked, as if some giant was opening his morning box of cereal.

She spun and redirected the boys. “Run, Run!”

They scrambled down the stairs to the police department on floor one.

“The jail, for Gods sake!” she yelled out, ”It’s got to be built a little more solidly.” Shouldering through the doors, she

noticed the police radio was still on.

“Thank God, Someone had the sense to turn on the generator before evacuating.”

Coco wondered where everyone had gone. Facing downward, the streams of water poured from her eyes, mouth, and lips.

“Am I ever going to be put in the ground?” She felt the warm seawater rushing against her base. The wall she was leaning against

93

Beach Town Boombegan to move slowly with the wind, the ocean, churning and receding, was digging at its foundation. The surge at times lifted Coco,

floating her horizontally, almost parallel with the top of the wall. The handsome tree to her side was repeatedly pulled seaward with

the backwash of waves then violently thrown back into the wall by the force of the wind. The tree was grinding against the very wall

that was supporting Coco.

Crash, howl; one great surge swirled and lifted Coco violently up and out. The wall, the tree, numerous household goods and

parts of Reeds home were finally done in by the massive tidal surge. Coco became tangled in the fronds of the sturdy palm, its roots

miraculously holding ground. Coco was forcibly removed, banged and spun as she tumbled to the surface of a rushing river, randomly

following the highway, a torrent of water forcibly seeking lower ground.

“Sentry,” she thought, “If only he were here, if only I was with him.”

Bang! A flash of lightning! Chop! The eerie lighting creates a distorted look of terror on the face of the giant carving. Growl,

peeyow, the chain saw sputters at first, suffering from the rain and humidity. A flash of lightning catches Lu, explosion of thunder, a

slashing movement, howling wind, driving the chain saw deep into the giants back. Len, wielding an ax buries it deep in the crease

between Sentry’s huge eyes. Rex, in a frenzy, is rapidly hacking at Sentry’s' base with a hatchet. Whoom; Len’s second swing, buried

the ax deep into Sentry’s side.

“It’s dangerous with these two buffoons swinging steel around,” thought Lu. The tingling throughout his nervous system,

pumping chemicals mixed with synthetics and beer, overpowered the thinking process. He whooped like a primate, picturing himself,

with a tail forming out of the base of his spine, and that was fine with him.

“Damn, this thing is tough, this is taking way too long,” thought Lu in a moment’s clear thought. “This storm is going nuts!”

Items from all around were now in the air, lifted and thrown throughout the battle scene. Lu noticed the little maniac at the

base of the tiki had been knocked to his back by a blast of wind. Rex was trying to rejoin the attack, stuck on his back wiggling his

hands and legs, kicking and swinging like an overturned turtle trying to right itself.

Len, obviously winded, swung the ax, missing the tiki completely on his third attempt. The centrifugal force spun him around

one full rotation. He released the ax, resembling some perverse Olympic storm rider’s hammer throw. Kerwhang, it indented into the

studio garage door, falling to the ground, as did Len.

Another tic in time in the perverse turmoil, found Lu’s saw reaching a critical point in the core of the fiber holding the great

carving together.

The great face, noble and strong, leaned back, as if asking why, from some great tiki god above. Sentry’s head split from the

accumulated violent blows to the forehead and brows. Another blinding flash of lightning and the great head with its root ball of hair,

mysteriously levitated, temporarily caught in an updraft of swirling winds. An explosion, the telephone pole across the street, in front

94

Pete Dooleyof the city hall, pitched forward, as did the great Sentry, sparks illuminating his fall.

A startled Rex, mask of stark terror on his face, looked up to see a great tiki’s eye focused directly on him, coming towards

him descending rapidly. The head split at the furrowed brow, this part of the face, expressing a fearless rage.

A scream. Sparks without and within, Rex’s surmisal machine was whacked into the concrete. Darkness.

Len, trying to regain his footing, rose from all fours to a chimp-like crouch. Lenno never reached a primitive evolutionary

posture before the eastward side of Sentry crashed into his shoulders, driving his waffle-tomato squarely into the concrete deck.

Lu, temporarily mesmerized by the falling of the pole and the light show across the street, was further shocked to see a

vehicle tear out from city hall. Losing focus on the deed at hand he missed the splitting of the tiki.

Becoming aware of his situation he dropped his still-running chain saw, and retreated in self-preserving terror. He reverse

duck-walked as fast as he could, scrambling to avoid the falling parts of the splintered carving. He misjudged the distance, slamming

his head into the studio door. Dazed; eyes and mouth wide open, he lay in a semi-conscious state.

Rain and fronds, paper cups and newspapers whipped against his face. Lying in the pouring rain, Lu slowly began coming

out of the fog. He began cataloging the situation; “Should I be here? Is it time to get out of here?” Refocusing, he felt the ax handle

under his right hand. He was, in fact, lying on the head of the ax, slowly sensing the cold steel at the back of his head. Lu was

consumed with rage, having failed to get his revenge. He cursed, having become involved in the losers' world, battling the tiki. He let

out a primate scream, popped to his feet, the waning adrenaline no longer had its numbing effect, and his head began to throb. Now,

from his lowest depths, fury was taking over his being.

One great swing, bang, the lock held.

“Neeyow,” Lu screamed. He raised the ax a second time far above his head and slammed it down with so much force the lock

and hinge broke free of the door at once. The follow through, slowed only with marginal change in velocity, put Lu in a purely

defensive mode trying to avoid the ax head. He released the ax and jumped before it split his leg down the center of the bone. He spun

to see the ax skipping and sparking along, ending up in the medusa like curls of Sentry's hair. He struggled over and pulled it; three,

four times, finally freeing it. More time lost. He spun towards the studio door leaning into the wind, step-by-step, sheet-by-sheet of

pelting rain. His head continued to throb; overpowering rage conquered doubts or sensibilities flashing through the pain.

In the gallery there was no longer a blow-by-blow report. Eyes throughout the room were cinched tight or averted in wincing

dread. Over the sobs of terror, one voice, Mizbek, softly intoned, “He was the greatest among us.”

There were groans of approval amid comments of, “what can we do,” alternating with pleas for someone to come up with an

answer to the impending doom.

In the studio there was more outspoken terror. The lightning, the slamming wind, ripped and tore fiber and structure, every

95

Beach Town Boomtiki and carving was cowering. The carvings in the studio had been grouped high on workbenches and slid among rafters. The demise

of Sentry, their protector, no matter how great the battle, filled the room with uncontrollable terror.

“Friends?”

“Friends!” Chief shouted even louder.

“Are we to do nothing? Should we forget the memory of the great Sentry? Have we learned nothing from his bravery?”

There was a momentary silence from the tikis.

“Have we no power? Should we just cry and succumb to this monster? Were we just carved to be fierce-looking and, not

fierce?”

Through the chief’s great oratory, or in reality understanding that there was no other recourse, the room of wood realized, or

at least thought, they could.

“I done all this.”

Mark was in the chair leaning forward, wet hair and beard flowing over his cupped hands. All he could see in his mind was

the massive painting, the storm, in his studio. The gray purple to black streaked washes of its sky, the morbid swirls in the sea, the

flags, and the utter destruction. His rage and anger at the degradation of his pristine world, developed and paved over had been

brought forth to canvas. Now, somehow, it was all coming to fruition. Once master of the mystical and mythical dreamlike images, he

had let his hate for the new environment consume him, it showed in his work. Mark had wished, almost prayed; for a wiping of the

slate, a cleansing so to speak, to knock Crescent Beach back into the stone age and let it grow back as it could have, as it should have.

Ah but man, thought Mark; man would probably just do it again. His sorrow and thoughts seemed to coincide with the malicious wind

and rain.

Slowly, one by one, the storm was removing the slats nailed over the windows of Mark's studio. The great monster, first

sniffed around, then snorted, then unleashed a hoard of demonic winds throughout the room. The great work, depicting the elements

gone awry, now fell victim to said elements. A portion of the roof disappeared into the night.

Exposed; the painting of the storm began to melt, rain-washed the gray and browns into the rough steel gray waves below it.

The colors blended together, accumulating and forming a descending wave of muted colors curling down towards the corner, the

corner with the idyllic little house on the beach. More roof, a wall, the room was being ripped through, as if being sorted by some

great recycling company in the sky. Piece by piece, bucket and brush joined the windy exit. The great drawing became barely

discernible, the prophetic painting was spun, ripped, and impaled on a shattered rafter, before it’s inglorious exit into the dark stormy

night.

96

Pete Dooley

“HOLD ON!”

Wayne seemed to sense the next phase of the attack. He placed his hands and arms across the desk as if he could hold it in

place. The beach house was lifted, and then caught by the limitations of its ancient wood pilings while slammed backward with the

force of the great wave. Water came pouring in every slat and crack of the door and window coverings. The structure rose and fell

like some great ship at anchor but did not break free. All light gone, the generator was swept away, as well. Salt water poured onto the

floor. Mark remained seated, clenched to his chair like Jim Kirk, weathering some great attack by the dreaded Romulan horde. His

chair was floating and spinning like Alice in a teacup. Adam, splayed across the floor on a throw rug, was lifted and rammed against

the back wall. He looked up, the wall of water had to have been as high as the ceiling, water was now dripping from above. There was

no escape, the beach house could only survive by submarining the onslaught or be pulled up similar to a cork from Mr. Vie’s Chateau

Rothchild wine bottle, and shattered into oblivion. Helplessly, the three braced themselves. Adam observed that he was not the only

one trapped within the ancient wooden bubble, praying.

“Get into the loft!” Wayne yelled none to late.

They negotiated their way up the ladder into the small sleeping loft above, once a small attic. The volume of water filling the

room they had just escaped mesmerized all three. The timing of the decision was made without a second to spare, the invasion of

water began to lift and move tiki and chair, wooden spoon and ball, in an ever-nearing, eerie dance of drowning possessions. Nothing

was said.

Adam only saw Evie and the boys.

The tidal surge is a great slab of water at the apex of a great storm pushed like the waters in the bow of a ship. The surge is

generated from the pressure change of a hurricane making its way through the waters. The wall of water carries only a cargo of wrath

and turmoil. The wind gives the head shots the jabs the relentless flurry of blows. The waves give the gut punches that stagger and

weakening support removing the ability to stand. The silent enemy is the tidal surge it carries within it the most devastating power. It

carries the knock out blow. A flood of water that sweeps in, washing over low-lying lands, lifting structures off foundations, carrying

away anything not securely earth-bound.

In olden times, these storms were named after women, referring to some unfounded correlation of unpredictability. The

storms now were sharing men's names to correct this foul and degrading analogy. Studied and cataloged, they were still unpredictable,

and though regendered, were only slightly better understood. Through man’s puny efforts, these storms were photographed and

tracked by small bits of computer filled alloy, projected into earth’s orbit from the space center to Crescent Beaches north. Circling the

earth, these technological wonders, beamed back images of weather changes, helping humans find shelter, cower, and pray for storms

97

Beach Town Boomend.

At the epicenter, stripped of sureties, securities and arrogant pride, those trapped transmit prayers through clasped hands.

Eyes closed, pinched tight, shaking little hands beam desperate appeals, far above the gray ceiling of the storm. In dire conditions,

man reverts back to ancient times, when confronted with nature’s wrath, back to the day when he communicated on a more regular

basis. Beamed out mentally, whispered, or pleaded out loud, these supplicants all now begged for an early end to a seemingly

insurmountable situation, legally refereed to as "An act of God". Murmuring lips expressed heart-felt terror. The broadcast prattled

past the circling beeping space flotsam and jetsam, past the Weather Stat II, orbiting the little blue ball, earth.

Duct-taped hands, wound tight behind Cal, are turning blue. He is finding it difficult to breathe. The choking grasp of the

bony arms around his neck only add to the problem, a task made no easier, as Sam's arms were around his middle, squeezing the air

from his diaphragm. Sam was mouthing metaphors and random words from Sunday school classes long past. Sheena is making

promises, declaring oaths, negotiating a spotless future, if spared from storm’s wrath.

Evie can hold on no longer. She is swept from the remnants of the palace of Zandor. Now refocusing her strength, she grips

her beloved boys, under, over, out, and gone.

Shaking fingers, Adam hunches down eyes closed.

The author and artist of this devastation, Mark, begs forgiveness for his misdirected hatred. His whispered pleas are inaudible

against the wind. He holds the shattered young man close, arm around his shoulder.

Wayne reaches below to grab a passing tiki or prized piece of art. The desperate swipe resembles some great Kodiak bear

fishing in an Alaskan stream. Pawing around blindly, he can only come up with a floating piece of soap. Silently he leans forward,

crossed legs folded in front, doubled over to fit into the small area of headroom. Assuaged by anything to take his mind off the

situation at hand, he began to carve. No light now, drawing only from the feeling in his creative eye he fashioned the piece, using

thumbnail to carve, palm and fingers to smooth, rubbing and notching, until finished. With a sigh, he reached through the darkness,

opened Adam’s clenched fist and placed it in his hand. A white bird, wings spread, as if in flight.

Darkness consumed, fitful sleep, a night seeming without end, the three were jarred and jostled by storm’s rage.

98

Pete DooleyA glint of sunlight cut through one of the cracks in the siding of the tortured house. A quick assessment below revealed

receding waters. It looked as if the storm had been caught in the act of burglary. Anything not carried away by the flood’s hurried

escape was dropped helter skelter throughout the room.

In Layman's terms, the great bitch (this storm was after all named after a female dog), Sheba, decided, or it was decided for

her, veered north and back to sea, just as the more violent winds of the eye wall neared shore.

Sheba had stared down the beach house. The little building at ocean’s edge, eaves down, deck like a hand open, is a vision of

supplication. Sheba surveyed the results of her wrath, one little building, barely standing, staggered and wobbling. Behind the humble

structure, to its north and to its south, Crescent Beach was laid waste, a jumble of leveled buildings and trees stripped of sustenance.

With a final derogatory huff she turned and wheeled north.

Sheba, redirected her ill winds towards Charleston and Wilmington, spinning on towards the great catcher’s mitt of land

protruding eastward further up the coast, landfall to many of Sheba's ilk. In technical terms, assayed from photos beamed back from

the busy little weatherstat II satellite, to the hurricane center in Miami, this was the account.

“A cold front, with an adjoining high-pressure system, commingled with the warm, moist, high water temperatures of the

southern Atlantic, changed the track of the storm.” At least that is how channel 6 weatherman Ronnie Storms (not his real name)

described events during his (SPECIAL REPORT! 24 HOURS OF SHEBA'S WRATH!), weather report.

“HELL!”

Rex looked up at the same time Len was regaining consciousness, both were crumpled and pressed beneath the great

carving’s sections. A great wall of brown muck, tree parts, lawn chairs and driftwood scoured over them, engulfing them in a raging

torrent of water. Both joined the river of waste. They tumbled past Lu, who had regained his footing and was standing prepared to

charge into the studio, ax at the ready, contemplating only mayhem.

A huge form, part of the flood of water, spun past them and drove into the back of Lu’s head, pitching him forward into the

studio. His back swing wedged the ax into this huge log. After dealing its blow, tearing the ax from Lu’s grip, it spun away in the

currents down the Minuteman causeway towards the river.

Bereft of weapon, cohorts and balance, Lu was now tossed into the center of the room. The wind, lifting and dropping the

roof, launched tikis from rafter, bench, and shelve. They splashed down, encircling the antagonist.

Lu’s cheek was scraped by the course bark of a passing tiki. Chief, with the velocity of a redwood log falling from the height

of ten feet, blasted onto Lu’s shoulders. Lu was rammed amidships by a torpedo-like log following the currents. His reprieve from a

sure end came only when the room, filling with a whirlpool of water, roof about to dislodge, emptied with a roar.

99

Beach Town BoomThe force of the escaping waters from the studio, coupled with the subsequent torture from the elements, forced a collapse of

the gallery building as well. This levee break carried with it many of the warring squad of enraged tikis, led by the floating, bouncing

Chief.

Lu, consumed by panic, had over extended his plan of attack and was at the mercy of the elements and debris. He dove and

swam, was gored and beaten, staggered and slashed, finally escaping in a whirlpool, out into the street. This arresting current merged

with the main mass of sludge, hurtling down towards the river. He ran his hand over his face, both eyes were swollen and protruding,

his skin torn and shredded, broken jaw, his mouth hung open bearing all his teeth. He had taken on the visage of the tikis he had

battled and lost to.

Reed had been stunned by Evie’s intransigence. Self-preservation demanded he drive to safety and let her enjoy the fate of

her friends and lover. Over table and chair he stepped, down the hall, out the door, in a robot-like walk, to his escape pod.

Outside of the building he saw and felt the turmoil and terror, double what had imploded and destroyed the just below specs

department of records. His heart began pumping, something other than the Novocain-like substance that had artificially sustained him

to this point. He flashed momentarily on Evie and her children, for only a second. He looked back at the building he had constructed.

The structure began to shake violently, as if trying to figure out whether to stay earthbound or follow its flapping roof.

“They are done for now, huffed Reed, they are all done for.”

Slamming the vehicle in gear he stomped the accelerator peddle to the floor. He had to get out of this mess, fast. Power poles

were down, sheets of rain, near total darkness. It was now so dark he found that heading up towards the highway, it was virtually

impossible to calculate the turn for the coast road. He soon found out why he couldn’t see the road.

The force and voluminous wall of water from the tidal surge hit and rocked the two-ton vehicle. The Humvee’s sheer weight

helped it hold course through the preliminary onslaught. The swarm of water eventually began lifting; pushing and slowly spinning the

vehicle back down Minuteman causeway. The causeway had now become a river.

Reed began crying, giant screaming cries, smashing his hands, or his forehead, on the steering wheel. The Hummer was

doing small, slow, unbalanced pirouettes and turns. The huge wheels alternately gripped and gave way. Reed now had a panoramic,

virtual, rotating slide show of Crescent Beach’s demise. Flashes of lightning accentuated it: first, the palace of Zandor, then, the

studio, next, the gallery. Trees were swept and knocked down, chirp, bump, stop, as he lurched past the turn to his cul de sac. Reed

saw his boat and neighbor’s boats massing in a pile against some mangrove island in the river. He floated lazily along, heading ever

closer to the swollen banks of the Indian River. Bang! Bang! Goes his palm on the steering wheel, bang! Bang! Goes the head.

100

Pete DooleySkipping ladder rungs, as if in one jump, Wayne and Adam were down onto the wet slippery floor. Mark was taking the

slower, safer descent, his only option. Slam! The back door was open, a new grotesque world. Mark’s studio, mangled and roofless,

hollow trees and brush as far as one could see. Beating it around the corner in hopes of finding some vehicle in functioning order,

Adam glanced to his right. What was once the garden, ravaged and raped, was now again an empty lot, save one lonely desolate palm

tree, barely hanging on at a precarious angle. The receding waters and winds had replaced a dune in front of the property. No time to

gawk. Wayne and Adam reached the highway. Landmarks gone, it took a moment to get any bearings. To the south a convoy of

vehicles was heading their way, slowly creeping over the tree, car and house remnant filled, barely discernible roadway. Adam and

Wayne signaled and waved as they ran towards the column.

Sergeant Don Smithfield had heard about the civil defense guy who stayed behind, but their job was to protect against looters

as well. There wasn’t much choice but to throw down on the two oncoming fellows. One stopped, the big one, and quickly appraised

the column of the situation at hand. Don re-engaged the convoy and headed after the young fellow who changed directions towards

town in a dead sprint. Adam, not slowing or blinking, ignored the locked and loaded contingent, easing up to his side. The scene

resembles some outdoor show. Stalking the Cheetah: with Don Smithfield, channel 154 tonight at 9:45pm.

Married and father of four, Don tried to negotiate with the skipping, jumping, stumbling young man.

“Sir, I understand your concern, we are here to secure the area, I’m a father too, it’s our responsibility to get to the mayor in a

timely basis as well.”

Wayne leaned over past the frustrated soldier and barked, “Adam get in the truck.” With only a minor adjustment in stride,

Adam jumped, grabbed on to the side of the Humvee and swung himself into the back.

Reed continued on his increasingly mellow, rotating cruise backward. He slid across the golf course, nearing land’s end,

river’s edge. The Humvee stopped, wedged precariously against an outcropping, two tiki faces glaring in at him through his rear view

mirror. The city had commissioned Wayne, weeks earlier, to carve on the two dead palms at the rivers edge.

The anchoring forced a swarm of water over the hood of the vehicle, terrorizing Reed even more. He leaned forward, against

the wheel, avoiding the eyes in his mirror, prepared to surrender to the elements.

Whoom, screeaw, a grotesque figure of a corpse was dragging across the hood of the stranded vehicle. A bloody face

smashed against his windshield, Reed screamed louder burying his face against the steering wheel. His empty stomach supplied

nothing to regurgitate.

“Hey! He- he- help!” The corpse thumped on the window.

Reed kept his eyes closed tight, remembering years ago, though town tough guy, he never had any fortitude when it came to

101

Beach Town Boomhorror movies or gore. He recalled jumping high out of his seat, watching Halloween Twelve or Fright Day the Thirteenth, spilling his

drink in his lap. In reality his bladder had given way and he soiled his gabardines. This was no time for corpses that talked to be on the

hood of his car. Reed reasoned the pressures and lack of Colombian pick-me-ups had given him the DT’s. He was losing his mind.

“Hey Idiot, help me!” The voice was louder now.

The winds and roaring waters were giving way to a light rain. Hints of sunlight peered through cracks in the grey sky, for the

first time in twenty-four hours. “Maybe it’ll just go away,” thought Reed. The door was yanked twice and pulled open, flooding the

floor of the battle car. Reed, sobbing, kept his eyes closed tight.

“Greg, Greg, man! Why didn’t you help me?” The corpse had to grab hold of the side of its face to talk. The slurring of the

words creeped Reed out even more.

“Get out! Get out! G-get out of here!” The last, "get out," from Reed, sounded like, “ghegt uwght” as the demonic creature

closed his bloody fingers around Reeds throat.

“Reed! Reed, it's me! Lu! Shake it off numbskull, come on! The storm is almost over!” Reed opened his right eye squinting

at the morbid creature beside him.

“What in the hell happened to you? You are done in! What am I saying, I am done in, Reed moaned. “My house! My

business! The bank! I think I even killed the mayor. God-I, I’m done.”

There was a long pause.

“Did you say bank?” sloshed Lu through his roaming lower jaw.

He pulled his belt off and tied it around his head adding to his malevolent countenance.

“Bank, bank? Do you mean?” Reed’s mind was beginning to work; he and Lu had always been en deviante communicado

together. The two seldom had to use words, they knew the quickest easy way, they were always ready to scam.

“No one is around here, screw the bank, let’s get the money, they won’t know for weeks, lets go, I’m ready to get out of this

dump.”

Lu was on a roll. One malicious thought slurred after another.

Reed was filled with newfound focus. The Novocain feeling was coming back! Still sniffling and sobbing, he rocked the

machine back and forth. He took one last look at the monsters in his mirror as the vehicle began making headway through lowering

waters. They chugged slowly up Minuteman, towards the bank. The yanking and tearing at the axles and torturous motion had

wreaked havoc on the suspension and wheels. The once proud man-vehicle shimmied and wobbled, a metallic version of Sam.

The dawn was not a pretty sight; buildings had fallen sideways off foundations or were gone completely. The gallery/studio

buildings had walls down, both roofs were gone. In the rubble, chief rested casually against the beautiful Mizbek. The pair resembled

102

Pete Dooleysome warrior, home from distant battles recounting brave tales to his awe-struck love. The Hawaiian tiki gods were standing guard,

beaten and battered, but nonetheless maintaining their proud look. They stood guard over a mass of mangled carvings in disarray.

Pocahontas was lying propped against remnants of the wall, flaunting her womanly wares for all to see in broad daylight, much to the

delight of the gawking Hawaiians. To Wayne it looked more like the aftermath of some great celebration rather than result of a storm.

Surveying the scene, Wayne and Adam came upon the crumpled hulk of Sentry. A life and death search pressing them on, time was at

a premium. Wayne simply, reverently, carried the pieces of Sentry inside the remaining walls of the studio. He headed over to catch

up with the distraught Adam.

The two began searching through the rubble that was once city hall. Power lines were down; the process was slow and

tedious. Every step and movement was critical. The National Guard had secured the area. Guardsmen helped Adam lift forms and

move rubble, once the rooms and hallways of the vast sprawling building. Across the street, guardsmen were questioning three people

who had crawled out of the collapsed LoCal bar. The three stood huddled, blankets over shoulders, arm in arm consoling each other.

Helicopters were chopping and humming in the air overhead. Word was spread among the searchers to find survivors. The

hopelessness, warring with hope, kept Adam demanding the search continue at peak level. The hollow feeling of despair kept creeping

in.

Wayne observed the trail of debris leading down towards the river. He suggested Adam take a break, letting the search teams

continue at city hall. Wayne in the meantime would follow the trail. Adam would hear of no such thing, trudging on, zombie-like

behind Wayne. They worked their way through the piles of twisted cars and homes, chairs and family heirlooms, down towards the

river.

Crash! The Humvee still retained enough power to blast through the all-glass front of the Crescent Beach National Bank.

The move surprised Lu, or at least it looked that way. On further observation, the jump over the curb had dislodged his jaw sling and

his mouth was agape. Reed’s rage was such that he was conniving more clearly now, it dawned on him that there was no electricity,

therefore, no alarm. Instead of mincing around, he felt a frontal attack would be the best approach. He chuckled to himself about using

the banks own power vehicle for the attack. Reed was now two months behind in payments.

Time was of the essence. Reed noticed as they turned north on A1A there was a column of vehicles making its way up the

road from the south.

Bang! Crack! The windshield glass shattered, a bullet hit.

“Damn! Cops!” blurted Lu.

Laying flat on the front seat, Reed began to cry again, he began calculating an avenue of retreat.

103

Beach Town Boom“I can handle the cops,” he hissed to Lu. He wiped tear and nose on sleeve.

Reed kicked his door open, holding his hands high.

“Hold it officer it was just an accident.”

“Back away from the truck, asshole.” A large bloody figure, covered in mud, yelled from the back of the room.

“Damn, I thought we was done.” Came another voice from behind an overturned desk.

Lu stepped out of the vehicle. “Hey boys, we just came to make a withdrawal.”

He had to keep his fist under his jaw to make an attempt at speech, it came out sounding more like “ heyee beesh we jesh gum

ta myk a wshdwll.”

“Shut up asshole,” Len’s newfound backbone was fortified by a small gray handgun he had confiscated from the rubble of

city hall.

Lu went into immediate hustle mode, finding a better position for his lower jawbone so all that were present could better

discern his deviance.

“Boys, we have the get-away vehicle right here! There is more than enough money to go around, there isn’t much time, we

saw some trucks coming from the south, we have to get moving fast.”

Fast was not one of Len or Rex’s strong points; Lu’s stream of thoughts took the boys some time to evaluate. There was a

long pause, they continued to mill around at a stand off. Then, as if a timer went off, they dropped all pretenses, scrambling around the

room giving in to their lowest of needs and desires. All present, began gathering up coin and bill, throwing anything of perceived

value into the idling one-eyed tree crusher.

The newly formed Crescent Beach gang backed out in manly fashion through the smashed bank front. The fabulous four,

swiggled and wobbled, jouncing northward through the mangled town to the main causeway north of town.

This thoroughfare would lead them to the mainland highway north or south, far from the painful memories and failures and a

future of poverty. Reed cursed at the damage done to the (bank’s) Hummer, the trauma was so extensive the vehicle could only drive

at a maximum speed of forty-five miles per hour. “Fast enough,” he thought, “we are almost to the mainland.”

Lights blaring and motors wound out, Bolus leading Botchis, driving the mayor’s car, were in a high-speed race to get back

to the task at hand, securing the town. Bolus was wondering to himself if he would be titular head of the city if the mayor was still

missing. He envisioned speaking to the press and giving interviews about his harrowing escape from the clutches of the storm.

Bolus’ jaw dropped. He pumped both feet onto his brakes, locking the Crown Vic into a four-wheeled skid. Botchis had no

choice but to lock up as well. Flipping on his siren, the acting mayor/psst Police chief began to U-turn on the causeway. He rolled

down his window circling past the seething Botchis.

104

Pete Dooley“Botchis! Botchis! I got the mayor! There’s the vehicle! I told you she was leaving with Reed! They must have been trapped

in the storm, damn look at his Hummer, seems they rescued a couple of others. The things full!”

Lights blaring, Botchis following just behind, both cars vectored in.

There was no great escape across the marshes of the Indian River for the all terrain vehicle. The Humvee, using its last

reservoir of power and control to negotiate the flat causeway, grunted and groaned, wobbling to a stop, a burp of steam escaped from

its flapping hood.

Inside the belly of the beast, the battered brain of Lu sputtered, a hissing sound escaped through his teeth, his tongue flicked

out over his dangling jaw.

Reed ran his fingers through his sweat filled hair, looking down he evaluated; his clothes were a little wet from the rain, but

his tassel loafers were still shiny and clean. He pulled his lips tight, exposing his teeth; it was the best Rotary club smile he could

produce in these circumstances. He reached for the door handle.

Len’s hands were shaking; stinging tears poured from his eyes fogging the view of the pistol in is hand. He paused, letting

out a moan, he flicked the gun under the seat in front of him, and he then launched into a series of huffing sobs.

Rex, sensed the distinct taste of baloney, a Pavlovian response he always had whenever seeing the shimmering glow of blue

and red flashing police lights. His tongue wrapped around his lips, he was thinking of a hot shower.

The vehicle, master of bush and branch, shook in a death rattle, its four doors flapped opened, discharging its dark innards.

Len raised his arms and pirouetted, placing his upraised hands, and inadvertently his hairy belly, against the side of the

groaning Hummer.

Rex stepped out, gingerly trying to use his one remaining flip flop in a snow shoe like fashion, hoping the surface tension

would keep him above the soft roadside muck. In a flamingo stance he put his hands together behind him in a pre-zip tie, pre-arrest,

surrender. He looked down and shrugged, slowly sinking shin deep.

Greg Reed jumped out from the driver’s side, he struggled to right himself after slipping, tassel loafer deep, into the post

storm muck. Planted and immobile, in an earthen grip, he began swaying back and forth, his arms swinging in a morbid mime of a

palm tree caught in a storm.

Lu paused in his seat. After the initial flurry of activity, he eased out and slid along the side of the vehicle, between his open

door and Rex’s. Lu looked out across the vast, calm, Indian River; sky blue, clouds now a beautiful puffy white. He looked down at

the edge of the man made causeway, enamored by the undulating tide of plastic bottles and beer cans amid the reeds and weeds. He let

out a deep sigh.

No mayor.

A concerned Botchis, requested Michael stay in the vehicle with Beki, he approached the driver. The back end of the vehicle

105

Beach Town Boomwas chock full with loose bills and coin. Obviously this was not a rescue mission.

“Those two held me at gun point Andy! God I’m glad you guys got here in time!”

Bolus interrupted Mr. Reed.

“Where’s the mayor?”

Reed froze. He was locked up solid; he had no diversion, a deer in the headlights. He looked around for some support from

Lu. Lu was nowhere in sight. Reed bent over and began pawing at the mud that was slowly pulling him down, a stain was slowly

browning its way up his tan slacks, creeping towards his knees. Panicked and disoriented, partially as a diversion, Reed increased his

frenetic scooping and splashing in the mud. Panting and whining, his entire being became focused on the effort to free his alligator

skin, tassel loafers.

Reed felt an arresting, lifting, pressure under his armpits, he looked up meekly at the two officers straining to free him from

the earthly grip. He struggled for a second to maintain adhesion to his footwear, before pointing his toes and releasing. There was a

gaseous, burping discharge from the two holes below him as both Bronx cheered to a close.

A disorienting tingle came over Reed, the pull under his armpits, coinciding with the pointing of toes, developed into a deja

vu, all consuming experience.

Reed liked this new/old world; the cool, beautiful salt water washing over him, he felt so clean. The water swirled over his

back, around his calves, over his pointed toes.

Bolus spun Reed around; he was becoming increasingly concerned with Mr. Reed’s erratic behavior. He reached up and

pulled Reed’s arms, swimming through the air, down to his side and then to his back, snapping the zip tie around his wrists.

“Mr. Reed we are just going to have to hold you here until we get some answers as to what's going on.”

In a moment's lucidity, Reed took one more scan of the area before being put in the squad car. He could have sworn he saw a

snake, slithering into, and below, the plastic bottles and trash, floating by the side of the causeway. There was only a momentary black

swirl before the pollution re gathered, closing like a polyethylene curtain. The snake disappeared into the weeds.

Bolus put his hand over the top of Mr. Reed's sweaty head and aimed him into the crowded squad car. He yelled at Rex and

Len to move over.

Reed briefly wondered why the officer was putting him in a car with a giant fat fish and a salivating hound dog named Rex.

Greg giggled and jumped back into the warm ocean water, he could see a figure in the distance outside the break. He yelled

as loud as he could, “Hey Adam.. Hey Adam.” Greg jumped on Rex the dogs back and yelled to the fat, red-faced fish to pull him out

through the waves. He knew he couldn’t do it alone without his special friends help. For some reason his hands were tied behind his

back.

106

Pete Dooley

Bolus yelled for backup from Botchis, a melee had broken out in the back of the squad car. The back seat of the Crown Vic

had become a mud filled washing machine. With his hand on the door handle, Bolus waited for Botchis to come to his side before he

ventured to open the door. Through the back window, officer Bolus observed the muddy spin cycle. The fat face of Len, in a bug eyed,

red-faced panic, smashed against the window before disappearing. Next, the muddy smear of Rex’s face; tongue out, sunk from view,

yelping, “Help." Help!” A muddy argyle sock squeezed against the window before the top of Mr. Reed’s head banged against the

window. Rex had bucked him off his back.

A cold chill came over Randy as Reed’s face reappeared in the muddy window. His dilated eyes glazed over, as if he was

looking for something a million miles away. Reed kept repeating, yelling, “Hey Adam. Hey Adam.”

107

Beach Town Boom

Oil Slick Glass

The Osprey, aloft for the first time in days, is soaring high above the river and sea of devastation. It all means nothing in his

simple life path. The hunting and fishing are better after the cleansing storm. Sea life disoriented and out of place from the turmoil,

often misjudges and meets with talon. Lifted, squirming and dying, they are taken soaring on a final journey.

A fluttering stall before the swooping skimming attack, an instinctive pause, alas, the three targets near a floating log are too

big for a sea bird’s grasp. A small boat below, a figure dives into the water, Osprey veers off towards the sea. The ocean has more

pickings, a little salt in the diet.

Wayne had appropriated a boat; Adam had commandeered two poles from the flotsam and jetsam. They searched along the

river shore. Wayne’s fear, now, was that Adam couldn’t, or wouldn't be able to accept the inevitable. He began to focus on a floating

log partially on the shore of a small mangrove island in the distance, three floating forms to its side.

“Adam look back to the south, see if you can see anything.”

Wayne was only delaying the inevitable. He rose to his full height, hoping to block Adams view, trying to shield his friend

from the pain Wayne now felt in his chest. Adam sensed something in the uncommon silence of Wayne. He could see nothing forward

except his huge friend’s back; straining, digging a little harder and pushing with longer strokes in the shallow river bottom.

Adam’s heart began to race, the boat almost tipped over as he forced himself frantically to Wayne’s side. He let out a groan

as he saw the focus of Wayne’s attention. Adam jumped over the side of the boat. He splashed into the brown waters with no

evaluation or calculation as to depth or distance, landing in waist deep water. He pitched forward, regaining his balance by swinging

his arms in great arcs digging and driving forward into the soft river bottom muck.

108

Pete DooleyThere is an eerie calm after a storm, nature at rest, too worn out to huff or puff even one breath of wind. Oil slick glass,

surfers would call such conditions. The stillness and silence had a tomb-like quality to Adam. He neared the scene, and slowed,

clenching his fists to his side. His wake kept moving forward, rocking the floating log as if it were transmitting heartbeats out from his

very existence. The rolling motion seemed to lift the heads. “Ah, if only,” pleaded Adam; he redoubled his drive towards the painful

scene.

He reached under the head of Evie. Her arms were over the boys in a death like grip on the log. He turned her over. Wayne

jumped in and steadied the log, grabbing the two still boys.

“These guys are breathing!” Wayne yelled.

“These guys are breathing!”

“Adam?” The soft voice came from below him as he reached to touch the boys.

“Adam? Is that you?”

His hands were below her waist; Evies head was still on the log squinting into the sunlight.

“Evie, Evie! I should have known, no one could have survived that, but you did.”

Adam bathed himself in Evie’s beauty, a beauty deep below the scars and welts and shredded clothes. He gently reached over

and pulled a twig from her tangled hair.

Barely in a whisper she began to recount softly.

“No matter what hit us, we never became separated from this log during the whole ordeal, how or why, I’ll never know.”

Wayne took off his shirt and wrapped it around the boys; he gave them both a drink of water. Adam poured a small amount

of water onto Evies lips, before she could swallow; he gathered her up into a vice like hug. No matter, she closed her eyes and smiled,

refreshed by his contact.

Wayne moved over to the log and spun it over. It fought to spin away as if it had something to hide, heavily weighted to one

side. He placed his hands on both sides and spun it again.

“Must have been a log from the studio,” guessed Wayne.

Looking closer he could see patches of aqua, deep scrapes and notches, the barely discernible features of a carved log. His

eyes widened.

“Coco!”

Wayne’s heart fully skipped a beat. Stunned and in disbelief, he ran his fingers over the mud filled, ground down, all but

featureless carving. There was another pause as his fingers and eyes vectored in on the ax embedded deep in the side of the carving.

“Strange things happen in these storms,” he said out loud.

Wayne began pulling on the tool embedded deep in Coco’s side, dislodging it after a few powerful yanks. Looking closely

109

Beach Town BoomWayne rotated the ax, and then flipped it end to end. He growled. The insignia carved in the handle, a black heart and the letter U.

“Lu Cipher,” he mumbled to no one in particular. He tossed the ax into the bottom of the boat.

Wayne paused for another moment in stunned silence. He then gently rolled the beaten and battered Coco back over. He took

one last look into her face. He rinsed her and dug the mud from her barely visible features. After a moment’s pause and reverie he

began to launch the sweet beauty away in the river and give her some sort of freedom.

“PLEASE! Please! Wayne! Don’t leave her!”

Evie pulled from Adams steadying grip and was trying to lurch out of the boat as if she would personally dive in to join the

co-rescuer of her family.

"Please don’t leave her!” Evie was pleading through tears,

“Please!”

Wayne, gatherer and hoarder of all things stone, steel, wood, or soap, any item with a potential surface for carving or display,

smiled at his own momentary madness. He grabbed at the base of Coco, just making fingertip contact and pulled her back to his waist.

Turning with a big smile, he coasted the mangled beauty over to the side of the boat. Evie reached over the side and hugged him with

all her might.

“Adam you and your family take this fine vessel, there isn’t room for me and miss Coco. She and I are going for a walk.”

The boys giggled at the silliness of Uncle Wayne. Wayne, amongst kindred spirits momentarily splashed about as if he and

Coco were wrestling in the water. Adam smiled ear to ear, the ever-steadying Evie settled the boys in the bottom of the boat.

They each grabbed a pole, following slowly behind Wayne towards the cluttered riverbank. Wayne churned a V-shaped wake

setting a direct course towards shore through the glassy river’s surface. He trudged through the deepest parts of the river resting Coco

gently on his shoulders, cradling her under his arm in the shallower portions of the river.

At the river shore, Wayne pulled Coco up through the walls of debris. He moved slowly through the crowd of waiting

national guardsmen and news people. The throng swarmed around the mayor and her family, separating them, wrapping them up for

medical attention and media interviews. Wayne refused any help. He alternately carried or drug Coco, over shoulder, under arm, in a

steady deliberate motion up Minuteman Causeway. Trudging past sailboats on streets, roofs of homes in canals, past sad, returning

homeowners assaying damage, past police cars with captured bank looters.

The journey seemed to take a lifetime. Wayne reached the remaining two walls of the studio, laboring for his last few steps.

He slumped past a smiling Mark, who was holding to his side a small plaque. It read; nature, with an inverted V for the A, for all

intents and purposes reading NVTURE. It was all Mark was able to salvage from his scattered studio. Michael and the Wiz hurried to

help. One look to Mike conveyed a simple no. Wayne’s left arm lifted and fell over the tearful Beki as she hugged him, wrapping her

110

Pete Dooleyarms three quarters around his wet and soggy middle. Two more steps, he bent at the knees, gently lowering his burden down. Wayne

stepped back, hugging and lifting, taking in sweet Wisdom to the fullest. Coco rolled to her left side, stopping so close as to be

touching the nose and two eyes that were once the Sentry.

Wayne took another step back. Shaking his head he chuckled in disbelief.

“Tikis save the universe.”

Y. A. Wayne, and his Wisdom, slowly stepped over the rubble and gathered with friends in what used to be the front of the

gallery, to evaluate the damages and make plans for recovery.

There was a great celebration among the tikis, great claims as to who did what and what great wrath each wreaked on the

attacker. Chief made great oratories, Mizbek, batting her lovely eyes, was consumed in his every pause and ahem. Pocahontas; was

nestled between two Hawaiian tiki gods, in a great convocation of native land and sea warriors.

A dramatic pause in the revelry, Adam enters the studio area. He purposely steps across the room, an ax in his hand. A vein

of terror runs through the group again, pumped by the electricity of the unknown. He pauses for a second and lays the ax next to Coco.

He gently runs his hand over her tortured features, and then standing, he turns, and walks away. There was total silence. All could see

whose ax it was.

As is always his way, Chief softly enunciates,

“Coco, she saved us all.”

End

111

Beach Town Boom

.... Epilogue.

A few short weeks later, Adam, in concordance with southern politics, rife with nepotism, is assigned to be the new Director

of Parks and Gardens. His office had charge to disperse freely the grants and funds flowing into the “new look” city of Crescent

Beach. Evie, now a local legend, was given leeway to set more reasonable hours. She demanded and got a schedule more forthcoming

a mayor/mother. Her first official duty, performed from the new temporary quarters of City hall, designated:

The abandoned property adjacent to and abutting to said property named the compound, owned solely by Mr. Y. W. Wayne

and Rebecca Wisdom, shall be a city park. Henceforth named The Garden.

The new city director of parks and gardens office adjoined the mayor's. The locks installed on their office rooms were in total

conflict with the state’s sunshine laws. There was no protest.

Mark, in concordance with the reverence he held any governing body presented the mayor with a lovely hand drawn plaque.

On it was inscribed:

If you see this temporary building rockin, don’t come knockin. The mayor kept the plaque in her desk drawer.

A few Months Later...

The joyous citizens of Crescent Beach, all on hand for the dedication of The Garden Park, are gathered around the one tree

remaining in the sprouting replanted Garden.

The small spring of water is once again coursing from its center, now filling out a small crystal clear pool. The crowd presses

in around Wayne and Michael as the finishing touches are being put on the center of all the attention. The mayor stands next to the

Director of Parks and Gardens. He is still wet from his early morning evaluation of the cities landscape from the ocean (surfing). As

youth minister at the local church, Adam, in complete conflict with recent rulings by the supreme court regarding separation of church

and state, leads the citizenry in a short invocation, rededicating The Garden to the creator. “Something, something, flotsam and jetsam

and something, something, blue ball earth.” Observing the celebrants attention beginning to wander. Wayne, with a fierce whack of

his hatchet, continues carving on the front of the tree, finishing the fierce features, serious and stalwart, of the glowering Guardian.

Adam came up with the name. Aqua paint, still on his fingers, and streaked on his face, Michael is gluing great eyes, a bold nose,

112

Pete Dooleybrows and forehead onto the back of the stoic carved tree. Wayne Leans back, a warm smile creasing his face.

“Every guardian tiki should have a lookout on his back from now on!” bellowed Wayne. The crowd roars its approval.

“How's it look back there, old man?” Whispers the Guardian in a respectful tone.

Michael slips away to the right from his gluing and pasting enterprise on the back of Guardians head. We see the familiar

eyes and face of the Sentry.

Sentry’s eyes narrow, focusing on the reconstituted, painted and rouged beauty, no longer hidden behind Michael. Coco is a

short distance away, radiant, now firmly in the ground.

“Looks just fine to me son.” Sentry’s only reply.

Wayne steps back into the crowd arm around the Wiz. Leaning down to her, he chuckles.

“I think I’ll hang a hammock between these two.”

Evie turns, having momentarily lost track of her boys. Both are in a frenzied child like life and death struggle, one standing

over the other, a large piece of coral held high over his head.

“Cain! Cain! Stop that right now, one of these days you are going to kill your brother if you keep on like this.”

Adam, with a face now showing a weathered crease around his mouth and small wrinkles like wings beside his eye sockets,

gazes up in the glaring white sky. An osprey glides overhead. A small gray cloud snakes its way in front of the sun.

Life goes on.

113