september swim

The beach was largely abandoned now. Only a handful of stray surfcasters bothered to come down at this time of day during the last month of the season. They stood like sticks of driftwood spiked into the surf every 100 yards or so.

There was a young family. The daughter and son-in-law of homeowners here with their young son. They had the luxury of taking a late vacation because the boy was too young to know the difference between”summer vacation and the rest of the year. They were wrapping up the day. The boy had a last go at the waves, sand-pipering up and down the surf with a manic and exhausted laugh. Fletcher half expected the boy to keel over right there and fall into the sand, like a wind-up doll who’s key stops turning.

Fletcher knew this family by sight. The house their family owned was right down the street from his own. They had a crazy dog they seemed barely able to control. They were out at all times of the year as far as he could tell — whenever there was a three-day weekend or some kind of excuse, their station wagon would be in the driveway and the dog would be barking in the lawn, even in the dead of winter. He could see that the wife would live down here year-round if she could, but there was something holding the husband back — probably a job — and kept them in the suburban grind up north.

All of this was complete conjecture of course. Fletcher had never talked to these people — nor would he ever want to. Which is why — towel looped in his hand — he made his way down the beach to station himself half-way between the maniac kid and the closest fisherman.

In October, it would be just him and the surfcasters, but by then it’d be getting to be too cold to swim. Not to say it wouldn’t be bracing coming out of the water today. Fletcher carried with him a thick towel and was wearing a sweatshirt from the Duck Fire Department. Combined, with the hood over his we head, they would make the trek up the hill and back to the house more bearable.

The surf was rough, even in water up to his knees Fletcher instinctively turned his back to the breakers as the white foam crashed around him. He walked further out, diving under the crashing waves, allowing them to pull at his legs and swimsuit. The late-summer water was as warm as a bathtub, having been heated over the last three months.

Fletcher got his biggest thrill at the point where the waves crested, just before the break. He allowed them to pull his body up and let the curl of the wave break around his head. As this happened he let out little yelp that echoed in his ears when the water formed a cone around his head and face. He enjoyed this for a set of waves, three in succession. In his younger days, he would have caught the last wave and bodysurfed into shore. But his back and kneed were wrecked for this. So instead, he balanced on his tip-toes, took a few forward, paddled and log-rolled onto his back, where he floated.

***

Two hours earlier, Fletcher had been at the local Wal-Mart picking up a television for his bedroom. It was a 27-inch flat screen — high-def — and it was ludicrously small for the 500 bucks he was paying for it. But it was the brand his son had recommended in the email. It turned out to be a more expensive brand than the 42-inch set his son had gotten him for Christmas and the picture on that thing was glorious.

After they’d set it up, Fletcher and his boy had watched a football game. There was still cardboard and styrofoam strewn around, wires sticking out everywhere, but there they say drinking beer and eating pizza absolutely enveloped by the screen and a middling college bowl game. Fletcher wondered why anyone who had such a television would ever want to go to a football game again.

The new TV was for the bedroom. He got it so he could watch football games in bed and stay there — potentially until dinner — order a pizza, watch the late game in front of the monster in the living room and fall asleep on the couch. His son thought this sounded depressing and asked if Fletcher was feeling alright. He assured his son it was the opposite of what he was thinking. For the first time in 56 years, Fletcher had absolutely no one to answer to and he had made up his mind to take full advantage of that freedom. If he wanted to watch TV in bed all day, he was going to damn-well do it.

Maybe he’d find some kid in one of the bars on the bypass to sell him some weed and start getting high. Maybe he’d find one of those damn clinics to buy medical dope. Why the hell not? With Irene gone he had nothing left. The least he could get was the opportunity to enjoy the isolation that had been forced upon him. And so here he was, buying a high-definition television for his bedroom.

He found the model he wanted. There was a stack of them boxed up under the display model. Fletcher looked around for someone to help him pull the box up and into the cart, or even someone to sell him something more expensive. After seeing the television up close it looked more like a damn computer monitor. He felt like he could easily be talked into getting one of the 32-inch screens. After all, what was another couple hundred bucks to a retiree with one son and no grandkids?

The only clerk he could see was a teenager slumped behind the camcorder display, fiddling with what looked like one of the more expensive models. The boy glanced up at Fletcher, they made eye contact and he sheepishly came over to ask Fletcher if he had any questions. Fletcher could see the boy wasn’t trying to be rude or a pain in the ass. He was just a shy kid who didn’t have any business trying to sell anything to anyone.

“Can I help you, sir,” he asked looking at the talk show playing on the display model. He and Fletcher watched the sad sacks on the TV for a second — it was one of those, “who’s your real Daddy,” shows. “

Yeah, my son recommends this TV,” Fletcher said. He was starting to feel bad for the kid. “What do you make of it?”

“Well, it’s a good brand, sir. A lot of people pick this one up — because it’s cheap. But, honestly, we get a lot of returns. You know, it’s small. It’s OK for a kitchen or something, maybe a bedroom. But with these sets, it’s hard to get your money’s worth with anything under 32 inches.”

“Well, it’s for the bedroom,” said Fletcher. “I already have a 40-something in the living room.” He was somehow annoyed that the kid thought this would be his only TV. “Help me get one of these in the cart would you?”

The clerk mumbled something about an extended warranty and was relieved when Fletcher waived the suggestion away. They each grabbed an end of the box and Fletcher was surprised at how light the television was. He felt foolish now asking the kid to help him lift it.

“I’ve got it,” he said, feeling increasingly embarrassed by the whole process. He flopped the TV into his cart and wheeled it quickly in the direction of the checkout.

As Fletcher rolled his cart past bags of cat litter, the last buckets and shovels of the summer, and rows of women’s bras, he thought about the indignity of modern consumption. He bought his first color TV in 1973 to watch the Redskins lose the Super Bowl to the Dolphins. The Dolphins hadn’t lost a game all year and Fletcher knew the Skins’ over the hill gang had no chance. Still, he used the game as an excuse to pick up his first color set.

He went to a store that sold and repaired televisions — and that’s all they did. The owner of the store was on the premises and he was wearing a god-damn suit, not a blue vest. He had display models in the windows. He had couches and chairs arranged around the televisions so you could see what the thing might look like in your living room. You could sit anywhere in the room to get the different angles the set provided — hell, you were encouraged to. Fletcher spent two hours picking out that RCA. He traded stories with the salesman who told him dirty jokes and gave him his card in case anything went wrong. Fletcher wondered if people spent two hours buying a car these days, let a lone something as frivolous as a TV.

Today, he pulled the cart up to the check-out counter behind a mother with two kids buying the family groceries. The oldest had his nose in some kind of video game. When it was his turn, the woman at the register stretched out a hand-held scanner and waived it over the barcode on the box. There was a beep, and she told him the price. After she swiped Fletcher’s card she asked if he would need any help getting the set in his car. He told her he could handle it.

***

As he floated in the warm September water, Fletcher wasn’t thinking about the television sitting in his bedroom waiting to be unboxed. It was only Tuesday, there was plenty of time to get it set up. No, as he floated with his ears muffled, his body weightless looking up at the clouds turning heavy pink and orange, a seemingly bottomless ocean of black ink filled with unknowable creatures extending below him, he thought of Irene.

It had been almost two years since she died, but he could still see her face and feel her touch. Friends who had already lost their wives said the memories would fade and one day he’d realize he couldn’t visualize her at all — but that hadn’t happened yet and he hoped it never would. He could hear her smart-ass laugh and see the half-smile and raised eyebrow she gave him over a cup of coffee whenever he started to go off on a politician, coach or some other gifted S.O.B. who shouldn’t have been such an idiot. It was a look that said, “here he goes, that damn fool.” He could hear this and see it and nearly touch her as he lifted his head out of the water for no reason at all. As he did, he heard faint shouting.

The father who had been on the beach was standing waist deep in the surf, waving his hands wildly and shouting. He was even jumping up a bit as he did this. The wife, looked around with a mixture of fear, nerves and embarrassment. Fletcher leaned forward and started treading water to see what the man was going on about. His first thought was that the man was simply waiving — and Fletcher lifted his arm for a split second to waive back until he realized how ridiculous that was. Then he came out of his daydream completely and realized how far away the father was and how faint his shouts were given the amount of effort he was putting into it.

The houses on the shoreline were receding quickly — quickly enough for Fletcher to notice. Now that he had his wits about him, he could feel his body being pulled out — he could even see the water flowing out like a river.

He knew, of course, that the way out of a riptide was not to fight it — you’ll get nowhere swimming directly against the current. He knew he was supposed to swim perpendicular to the current, get out of the rip and then start swimming back. He knew all this, and he didn’t panic. He could swim back if he wanted to, but he was just so damn tired. He looked at the young father in the surf. He had stopped waiving now that Fletcher was clearly aware of his surroundings.

Fletcher’s mind cleared and he thought of nothing. The water was warm. The sun was below the horizon and a sliver of moon was now visible, reflecting slightly on the water. The sky to the west, beyond the houses was turning from dark pink to a faded sunset, giving way to dark. And Fletcher was still going out to sea.

***

He floated farther and farther from shore. The houses on the shoreline, now twinkling with a few lights, became smaller. He focused in on his own house — the house he built for Irene on top of the little hill. It was floating away now, disappearing on the horizon.

***

It was Sunday in late spring. He sat at the kitchen table with a fresh cup of coffee, a cloud of milk rose from the bottom of the mug. He was reading the paper. Irene came down from the bedroom. It was early in her disease, when they thought she still might have a shot — when they were still hopeful. She sat down next to him and put her arm around the back of his shoulders, resting it on the top of his chair. They kissed. “What’s wrong?” she asked, pulling away. “Nothing,” he answered turning back to his paper. She put her hand on his knee and squeezed it — an old gesture that had gone weak, even this early in the fight. “Fletcher,” she said, “I know when something’s wrong. I can feel it when we kiss.” He folded the paper and laid it on the table. He rubbed his eyes, then his forehead and briefly held his whole face in his hands. He turned to her and smiled, “What would you like to do today, dear? It’s going to be warm.”