A Day at the Beach

A Day at the Beach

Wherever Jeff is, it seems like he does not quite belong there.  His hair hardly glistened as he lay down on the beach.  His beard was long and thick, stained by the stench of vodka and cream.  He lay there with no plan, no inspiration, acting much like the ocean that crashed before him, constantly turning wherever things would bring him.  Whenever the waves of life decide to bring Jeff to the beach, he spends hours scratching his thick skull, and flushing his gnarled bent fingers through his mane.  His hair, though, is one of the few things he takes great pride in.  Everyday he washes and combs it, the same way he had done the day before.  And everyday, no matter what he did, his hair seems to regress to its original state of mess and disarray.   Jeff does not care, he knows he will wake up the next day, and it will be fixed.  His sense of fashion is more than outdated.  To categorize based on a timeline, it is non-existent.  His outfit does not change from day to day.  He wears a long brown robe with Mexican Pueblo designs on the exterior.  On the interior of the robe, there are many patches of different colors and fabrics fixing slices and holes in the robe, each one telling a story about where Jeff had been.  Now Jeff was no sentimental sap, but it seemed every time Jeff found himself on an adventure, his long robe would suffer a minor casualty.  One could say Jeff only had two things in his life, his hair and his robe.  One representing his mundane life, the other representing what could have been.  No matter, because at the beach nothing happens.  This is what Jeff thought at least, just waves rolling, tides creeping, sand blowing.  Jeff liked the beach, in fact, the beach may be the one place where he feels he belongs.  To him the beach is just the right time and just the right place.  Maybe that is why he always wears sandals.  On the street, on the grass, on carpet, on stone, or at the beach, Jeff wears his sandals.  Looking at him from head to toe as he lies innocently on the beach, one would think, he is a bum, a degenerate.  It is unfortunate Jeff’s meticulously cared for hair does not survive long enough for people to see, or that nobody sees the story in Jeff’s robe, or that nobody sees Jeff’s passion for the beach in his sandals.  Jeff’s identity is so misconceived at times he does not really know who he is.  This is why he lays down on the beach, returning to his safe house, where the world cannot touch him.  Here at the beach, there are just waves rolling, tides creeping, sand blowing, and every now and then, who knows, Jeff might see a dolphin swimming, poking its head out of the water to say hello.