It Could Be Worse

I stood on the last plank of the dock with my back turned on Atlantic City (both literally and figuratively). The breeze generously blew in that mossy, salty smelling air that I had come to love. I came to this spot and stood on this particularly unstable board often. It has come to be a ritual that follows a bad night at the casinos.

Nights like those it did not matter what was your strategy. Play aggressively and you lose. Play conservatively and you lose more; it just took longer. I called those unfortunate outings "dark matter nights" for two reasons. First, there was an invisible, unidentifiable force tugging on me like an amazing gravitating mass. Second, gambling, I concluded, was a very dark matter.

Sometimes you hit the tables and cannot be stopped; you win no matter how reckless you approach the games. More often, though, there is an ethereal force working hard to prevent you succeeding. At the low point of my professional gambling stint, I came to call the result of that supernatural force the "message-in-a-bottle effect". I sent my money out into the world only to be received and enjoyed by a stranger I would never know.

I came to the edge of this dock for isolation and tranquility. By the time I had lost a month's salary, the sun was just beginning to peek over the distant edge of the Atlantic and the sea was peaceful. Best of all, the boardwalk was abandoned aside from a dedicated runner here and there. The setting calmed me, almost allowed me to forget the large stone in my gut.

As I stood that morning facing the breeze and listening to the refrain of waves aggressively washing onto the beach and rolling gently back into the sea, I was interrupted. Jerking me out of my meditative daze was the low, somber voice of a man. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Who are you to talk to me? Can't you see I'm here alone because I prefer it that way? I wasn't able to say what I was thinking, though. I suppose I don't like to be rude. "Yeah. Sure is," I offered.

"I come here sometimes and just listen. And think," he said in a thoughtful tone.

Man, I don't give a shit about your life. Piss off. "It's a good place to do that," I replied, humoring the stranger. I still had not looked at the intruder and I decided I was not going to. Somehow if I looked at him, he won. What he won, I had (and still have) no idea, but I could not allow it.

After a half minute of standing silently alongside my trespasser, he piped up again. "Rough night? A man only comes out here this early if he's coming to terms with something."

Okay, you fucking philosophy smart ass. Who talks like that in real life? And don't you dare try to get into my business. I came here for isolation and tranquility, not to talk to some smart dick head about why I came here. "Yeah. Well. I lost a good chunk of money last night," I answered after considerable hesitation.

"Ah," he offered, evidently understanding my position. "It could be worse. You're alive and healthy. That's more than a whole lot of people can say."

I don't need to be comforted. I need to be alone. I need you to turn your philosophical ass around and never come back here. "A man only comes out here this early if he's coming to terms with something. What's that something for you?"

"Nothing. I've already come to terms with my circumstances."

There goes your theory about why a man comes here this early. Maybe smart ass isn't as smart as I gave him credit for. Admittedly a tiny bit curious now, I pressed, "So, why are you here?"

After a moment, he said solemnly, "Today is the last day of my life. I just thought I might as well get up early." He turned and shuffled slowly back toward the boardwalk. I stood watching the sun reveal itself entirely and the waves predictably flooding the shore and receding softly back into the Atlantic.