A Good Day At The Office

I was traveling  up the eastern coast of Florida.  It was the last leg of a long anticipated and well deserved vacation.  I had put aside money for over a year and still couldn't afford to fly, so there I was, driving the back roads, enjoying the scenery and stopping in every little town and village along the way.1

I had been driving for several hours and was in desperate need of a strong cup of coffee.  I was passing through a quaint little town when I noticed a small cafe on the ocean side of the road.  It looked inviting, so I parked the car and walked in.2

There were only two customers inside.  An old fellow was sitting at the counter reading the morning paper and a guy about my age, sat in the corner, staring out the window while sipping a cola.  He immediately captured my attention.  He looked like a castaway from a shipwreck with his worn out sandals and tattered clothes.  He had matted, windblown hair  and about a month's worth of untrimmed facial hair.  He had shockingly blue eyes and was deeply tanned.3

I sat at the table next to him so that I might share the spectacular view of the ocean.  The waitress came over with a pot of coffee as though she was reading my mind.  I turned over the cup on the table and she filled it.  She started to hand me a menu and I told her I would only be having coffee.  She gave me a look  that seemed to say, 'no tip from this cheapskate', then turned and disappeared into the kitchen.4

The guy next to the window had been staring at me from the moment I had sat down.  Never being afraid to strike a conversation, I said, "Gorgeous view, isn't it?"  His eyes locked onto mine.  His stare was so intense, I feared he would singe my eyeballs.  He just sat there staring at me.  He was making me uncomfortable, but I wasn't going to be intimidated, so I spoke up again.  "Just another day in paradise, right?"  He continued to stare at me without saying a word.  I sat there wondering if he'd ever blink, then the thought came to me that maybe he was deaf, or maybe mute.  I quickly surmised the futility of trying to hold a conversation and took a sip of coffee.5

Before I could swallow, he said, "Tourist, huh?"  I was shocked.  He could talk.  I was also surprised.  How could he tell I was a tourist?  I wasn't dressed like one.  I didn't have a noticeable accent.  Was it just because I was a stranger in a small town?6

I replied with, "Is it that obvious?"7

He immediately loosened the grip he had on me with his eyes.  It was almost as though being a stranger was a good thing.  He almost smiled as he said, "You're sporting an awful bright shade of red.  Locals don't get sunburned, at least, not that bad.  We're used to the sun down here.  Only the virgin skin of northerners will turn that red."8

I guess it made sense , but I was impressed nonetheless by his deductive observation.  Before I could say anything, he asked, "New York?"9

I was amazed.  I'm a transplant from the Pacific Northwest and had only lived in New York for a year.  I didn't have the telltale New York accent.10

I asked, "How did you figure that out?"11

He gave me a blank look and said, "Lucky guess."12

It was then that I noticed he could see my car through the window and had read my license plate.  I looked in the direction of my car and asked, "Lucky guess, huh?"13

He realized that I had caught on and started laughing.  It was a contagious laugh and I joined him.  The ice was officially broken.14

He came over and sat at my table.  We shook hands as we introduced ourselves.  After a few moments of idle chatter, he asked me what I did for a living.  I was hesitant.  Currently, I am on the lowest rung of the ladder of success and have found it very difficult to climb.  I told him I was in retail sales.  I was too embarrassed to tell him that I restocked snacks in vending machines.15

He grew very quiet when I asked him where he worked.  The ice came back as he turned on the stare once again.  I was speechless.  What did I say wrong?  I raised my eyebrows and shrugged as if to ask, 'What?' without using words.  He tuned down the stare and nodded his head toward the beach.  I repeated my shrug.  He turned and looked out the window saying, "That's where I work, on the beach."16

He looked at me once again with calmer eyes and went into a lengthy monolog.17

"Every morning I see people scurrying by as I relax on the beach.  They're so afraid of being late for their menial jobs at meaningless companies.  Stuffy nine-to-fivers glare at me as they drive by on the road.  I know what they're thinking.  Some call out as they go by,  'beachcomber', 'scavenger', 'bum.'  Go ahead, I think, trying to send a mental message into their nosey heads, call me any of them, call me all of them.  I don't mind.  They're just calling it like they see it, but I see it differently.  I'm a fortune seeker, a treasure hunter, an opportunist.  That's right... an opportunist.18

Yes, it's true, I don't hold a steady job, but I do work.  My office is a strip of  beach. My job is to patrol it and protect it.  No, I'm not an environmentalist, but I do dispose of dangerous things whenever I come across them.  My job. which I take very seriously , is to search the beach.19

The steady waves, the shifting tide and the wrath of Mother Nature all affect my beach.  Its face is always changing.  Each new day brings new opportunities.  There is always something to find.  My job is to find it.20

I am just one of many opportunity seekers who work along this beach.  We're very territorial, each staking claim to a particular stretch of sand and guarding it closely.  For the most part, we respect each others portion, but every once in awhile someone claim jumps and steals the others' findings.  If caught, justice is dealt in the form of a thorough beating from all the others.21

We live on or very near the beach.  Most of us have makeshift shelters.  Some of the lucky ones have had enough wood and useful materials wash up to build small shacks.  A couple of the most successful guys rent small bungalows up on the road.  They are the icons of our trade.  Someday..." his voice trailed off.  "Our motto is," he continued, "someday, it will be me."22

He glanced around quickly to make sure no one was listening.  The old guy had left the cafe and the waitress was nowhere in sight.  Confident of our privacy, he leaned toward me and spoke in a slightly softer tone. "I want to tell you a story, a fantastic story, but you must make a promise first."23

He was so serious now and I was intrigued, so I said yes.24

"You must promise not to ask any questions and also, you must promise not to repeat what I'm about to tell you."25

He had me.  I was hooked.  I would have taken out my wallet and paid him to continue.  I assured him of my integrity and promised to honor his wishes.  He looked furtively about the room once more, then started his story.26

My someday came.  I never told any of the others.  I never told anyone until now.  I'm not sure why, I should have been excited, I should have celebrated.  Instead, I get up each morning and hit the beach as though nothing has happened.  I don't know why; afraid of change, I guess.  I don't want to leave my beach.  I don't want to become one of those nine-to-fivers.27

It happened three weeks ago.  My luck rode in on the wings of a storm.  Not your average storm, mind you.  Mother Nature was angry; she stewed and brewed at sea for several days until she was boiling mad, then came storming ashore and let everyone know how she felt.28

It wasn't a hurricane, no, they're worse.  When Mother Nature gets into an argument with one of her daughters, she always wins and the daughter gets mad, very mad.  I'm sure you know some of her daughters by name; Camille, Isabel, Betsy... it's a big family.  Anyway, when one of those gals gets mad, she comes stomping ashore like a spoiled brat and has a tantrum all over us.29

The storm came late in the afternoon.  We knew she was coming.  The ocean warned us.  It gets skittish, then upset.  It's stomach starts to roll and heave.  The waves thrash about nervously.  Years of living on the beach has taught us how to diagnose the ocean's symptoms.  We were in for a whopper and we knew it.30

Those of us who lived on the beach gathered our worldly possessions and said goodbye to our shacks.  We’d never see them again.  It was doubtful that any of their shattered remains would ever be seen again.  Eventually parts would wash ashore and we’d rebuild.  With our world thrown over our shoulders in a sack, we hunkered down in a public storm shelter and whiled away the time as we waited for the ’all clear’ signal.31

The storm raced through town as though it was late for an appointment with destiny.  The signal came around midnight.  We didn’t sleep much that night, just milled around restlessly, waiting for dawn and a chance to assess the damage to our little strip of the world.32

I was the first one out the door in the morning.  It was going to be a beautiful day.  The sun was already hot; there wasn't an angry cloud in the sky.  I was eager to get back to my stretch.  Being a veteran of many storms, I have learned that when the ocean gets very upset, it usually heaves up a few trinkets. It was not a pretty sight.  Our town had been slapped, kicked and scratched by the angry storm.  Palm trees had been snapped like kindling and stacked against the houses like cords of wood.  There was debris and broken glass everywhere.  A few of the houses had been decapitated.33

When I got back to the beach, it had been scoured and cleansed.  I scarcely recognized it.  I never would have if not for the permanent landmarks which we use to determine the boundaries of our portions.  It was a new beach.  The wind and waves had completely re-sculpted the contours of the shoreline.  I had never seen it swept so clean.  There was nothing to find.  Nothing had washed up.  It was amazing.  Something always washes ashore, but not this time.  Apparently, the wind had blow everything completely off the beach.34

It was the same all the way up and down the beach.  One of the beach combers decided that whatever did wash up must have blown right up into town.  So off they went to search through the rubble in the streets for something of value. Not me though, I stayed behind.  The beach is where I belong, not the streets.35

I decided to patrol my stretch of beach once again, just to make sure I hadn't overlooked anything.  As I was walking along the hot, dry sand, I noticed a small white object about the size of a dime.  I hadn't seen it earlier.  Maybe the wind had just uncovered it.  I knelt down and started brushing away the sand.  It was a bone.  It wasn't long before I realized it was a skull; a human skull.  36

For a fleeting moment, I considered calling the police, then thought better of it.  I had no use for police and it was obvious they weren't going to help this poor soul.  Besides, those bleached bones looked like they gave up the ghost a very long time ago.  I felt reasonably confident that I wasn't disturbing a crime scene  No one could be murdered on my beach with out me knowing about it.37

I carefully excavated around the skull to see if there was anything else hiding in the sand.  As I exposed more of the skull, I was taken aback by its appearance.  I had seen skulls before,  but this one was gruesome and it was smiling.  It sure looked like it was smiling.  It was eerie because it felt like it was watching me; watching and laughing. 38

As I dug deeper, it became apparent that I would find the entire skeleton.  My next discovery was quite amazing.  Its arm was outstretched and its bony hand was holding an old, rusty sword.  It almost looked like the skeleton was pointing toward something with the old cutlass.  It may have been a coincidence, but the rusty blade was pointed directly at an old tree stump which was about fifty feet away.  That stump had always been there, but now that I looked at it, it was larger.  The storm had blown sand away and exposed more of it.  At the base of the stump, part of a hole was showing.  I'm sure it was my imagination, but it looked like the sword was pointing to the hole.39

Curiosity won the next round.  I went over to the stump and started digging.  I found that the hole was large enough for me to put my hand in, so I dug into the hole, hoping to make some great discovery.  I felt something in there, got a grip on it and pulled it out.  It was an old bottle.  I excitedly dug out all of the sand, but there was nothing else in there.  After all that digging, all I got out of it was an old booze bottle.40

I sat the bottle down next to my bony friend and resumed freeing him from the sand.  As I dug, I realized it wasn’t a complete skeleton.  Half of one leg was missing.  Near the short leg I found some pieces of rotten wood.  That was it, there was nothing more.  I dug around him a little farther in each direction and found nothing.  I started thinking about all the things which I had found and it was like a revelation.  I started laughing as I looked at the sword, the short leg with wood; a wooden leg, perhaps a peg leg?  Oh yes, and the booze bottle; rum no doubt.  I had found me a pirate.  It was silly, but absolutely possible.  I had just dug up a pirate.  I picked up the bottle and started talking to him like we were shipmates.  “Argh.  Shiver me timbers matey.  How ‘bout another swig o’ rum?”  I pulled the rotten cork out of the bottle and tipped it up to his grinning mouth.  To my surprise, an old piece of paper fell out of the bottle and wedged in his gaping grin.  The paper was rolled and it looked like my new found friend was ready to light up a big stogie.  I removed the paper and unrolled it.  There were a few faded and fuzzy words on it which were handwritten in crude English.  The note said, ’If ye be looking for me treasure, sail east for ten leagues, then jump in the sea.  Aye, thar it be, in Davey Jones locker.’41

I chuckled as I read the note, whether real or not, it didn’t matter because I’d never find out.  If his ship went down out there, why did he die right here on the beach?  Maybe he was shipwrecked in a storm and was severely injured.  Maybe his ship was attacked and sunk with the treasure still on board and this poor soul escaped, but was mortally wounded.  I could have played the ’maybe’ game all day.  The fact was, I had a pile of bones, a rusty sword and a rum bottle with a note in it.  I tried to estimate the value of the sword and bottle.  The way I figured it, the day wouldn’t be a total loss.42

I had to get rid of smiley.  The only descent thing would be to rebury him, but where?  I didn’t like the idea of burying him on the beach, but if I moved him someplace else, I’d attract attention.  Attention would mean trouble, so I decided to send him back to the sand.  I already had a hole dug, but I didn’t want him showing up again, so I decided to dig the hole much deeper and put him back where I found him.43

I took the cutlass and started digging; bare hands were too slow and I wanted those bones replanted before someone came along and wondered what I was doing.  After I had dug down a couple feet farther,  the rusty blade struck something hard.  My first thought was why of all places was there a rock here?  I crawled into the hole and pushed the sand away so I could get a grip on the rock.  As I brushed the sand aside, I discovered that the rock was actually a chest.  I scooped out the sand and exposed a small wooden chest which was about two feet long.  The wood was intact, but very rotten.  I whacked it with the butt of the sword and the wood shattered, spilling jewels and gold coins out into the sand.44

I shot my hands to my mouth and screamed as quietly as I could.  I peered out of the hole.  No one was back yet; there wasn’t a soul in sight.  I quickly filled all my pants pockets.  There was too much.  I took off my shirt, tied it into a hobo knot and filled it with the treasure.  I clambered out of the hole and ran with my sack up to the tree line and cover from sight.  I found the spot where my shack had stood and dug a shallow hole.  I deposited the loot and buried it.45

I hurried back to my pirate pal and began throwing him into the hole helter-skelter.  I shook his hand, thanked him and threw it in.  The skull was last to go. When I picked it up, he smiled at me and I smiled back.  I was so happy, I gave him a kiss right on that toothless mouth.  I patted the top of his head, thanked him once again and tossed him in.  46

By the time the guys came back from their scavenger hunt in town, I was laying out in the sun, right on top of my benefactor, getting a tan.  My next-door-neighbor came over, saw the bottle and sword and asked where they came from.  I told him they washed up while he was in town.  He called me a lucky so-and-so, kicked some sand into the ocean and wandered back to his stretch.  As I laid there tanning, I couldn’t stop thinking about the note.  Why did he write the note if he brought the treasure ashore?  Was there more treasure, ten leagues away, sitting on the bottom of the ocean?  The answers died with the pirate.47

He leaned back into his chair and gulped down some soda.  My throat was also dry.  I must have been sitting with my mouth hanging open the whole time.  I took a sip of my cold coffee.48

“Where...,” I snapped my mouth shut as he shot me an angry glance.  “Sorry, won’t happen again.”  I mumbled apologetically.49

We sat in silence for what seemed like hours, but I knew only minutes had passed.  I had a hundred questions banging on the inside of my head trying to get out.  No questions.  Why?   I couldn’t even ask him.50

He was staring out the window again, his gaze drifting out to sea.  Then he asked, without looking at me, “How far do you think a league is?”51

“I have no idea,” I replied, “but I don’t think it’s too far.”52

He pondered that for a while and came back with, “How deep do you think the water is out there?”53

“I have no idea,” I repeated, “but I don’t think it’s too deep.”54

He sat there staring out the window for the longest time.  The silence was killing me.  I was just about to burst when he turned and asked, “How hard is it to learn how to scuba dive?”55

Scuba dive?  Scuba dive!  I get it now.  He has a plan.  I told him with all sincerity, “I have no idea, but I don’t think it’s too hard.”56

He stared at me the same way he had when I first entered the cafe.  He was sizing me up.57

I blurted out, ”God!  I wish I could ask you some questions.”58

He leaned forward, folded his hands together on the table and said, “Okay, you may ask one question.”59

Only one?  My mind was on fire.  Which one?  I had so many.  My racing mind screeched to a halt.  I leaned forward, folded my hands on the table and looked him straight in the eye and asked, “Need a partner?”60

Well, I’m sorry to say they’re going to have to find someone else to restock those stupid vending machines.61