“All rivers run to the sea”
“Moon under the pier” by Joel Gitelson
Nothing ever lasted. Nothing
by Drew Holland
Runoff from the morning rains still poured from storm drains along the beach. It carved its way through the sand, reached the surf, and was swept out to sea. Dipping below the horizon, the sun cast the clouds a deep red. Electric lights throughout Pier Plaza buzzed to life and taxis along Hermosa Avenue began disgorging their passengers. People huddled on the glittering pavement trying to agree on plans.
Solomon Smith sat on the patio of the recently opened Café Paraiso, resting his foot between the iron bars of the railing. His hair was gray, but his body was trim and muscular like that of a triathlete. Across from him sat Chuck and Mark. The three of them specialized in buying old houses, tearing them down, building small mansions in their place, and selling them at an enormous profit. Two women, Cleo and Meghan, also sat at the table, slim from running miles along The Strand, tan from lying hours beneath the sun, both looking like they walked off the cover of Vanity Fair. Chuck took a sip of wine and finished talking.
“And a week later we closed on the place, letting me finish the year at nine-hundred.”
Mark whistled.
“What about you Sal?” said Chuck, addressing Smith. “I bet you cleared a million.”
“Huh?”
“What did you gross for the year?”
Smith pushed a piece of calamari across his plate before answering.
“I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mark.
“I guess I haven’t been paying much attention lately.”
Chuck peered at Smith with the expression a lost man wears while studying a difficult map.
“You’ve been acting strange lately, Sal.”
“I’m fine. I . . . I just . . .” He kicked the iron bar of the railing and it hummed.
Chuck’s look of concern morphed to excitement and he turned to Mark.
“That reminds me of this other project I have in the works. It’s on a massive double-lot. It looks like a palace.”
Smith looked over the plaza. Long lines snaked out of the clubs. Cell phone screens glowed like fireflies. He watched a thick bouncer check IDs at the entrance of the neighboring club, from which poured red light and heavy electronic music. Along with Café Paraiso, it was new and very popular. Still, Smith gave the place no more than a year. Nothing ever lasted in that location. Only a few restaurants in and around the plaza had really stood the test of time — the Mermaid, the Lighthouse — but even those would one day disappear. He thought of those photo histories that show the gradual buildup of the South Bay. The waterfront looked completely different a hundred years ago, and it would look completely different in a hundred more. Nothing ever lasted. Nothing.
Smith turned to Cleo and Meghan. He had dated both at some point, sometimes at the same point. He could still have either one of them that night, but that sort of thing held no interest for him lately.
“You’ve got to try her,” said Cleo. “I leave there feeling so much more balanced.”
“What makes it different?” said Meghan.
“She’s so encouraging and she’s always giving us these personalized suggestions on how to make the poses more effective. Sal went a couple of times. Tell her how good that new yoga place is.”
“It’s good,” said Smith, opening his mouth as if to add something, but then slowly closing it.
The women looked at one another.
“Is something the matter?” asked Meghan. “You’re usually — I don’t know — more fun.” The two women giggled to indicate that although they were entirely serious, the comment
was meant to be taken as a joke.
Looking like a boy dared to leap from a great height, Sal hesitated and then began, “Okay, so lately I’ve been thinking about—”
“Oh, that reminds me of the new yoga pants I bought last week,” said Cleo, turning to Meghan.
Smith had been leaning forward in his chair, his hands outstretched as though cupping some precious object and offering it to them. Now he kicked the railing so hard it sounded like the clang of a bell. He kicked it again and again, causing a continuous ringing. It could now be heard over the clinking glass and chattering voices of the patio, and heads turned toward their table. Chuck glanced at Smith, but it would take several more fierce kicks to pull him from his conversation.
“Jesus Christ, Sal,” Chuck finally said. “Will you cut that out?”
There was a tremendous scraping as the legs of Smith’s iron chair pushed away from the table. He stood, gripped the top bar of the railing, vaulted over it, and escaped toward the pier.
He was halfway to the bike path when a pair of men stumbled in front of him. The tight fabric of their black T-shirts contended with fat and muscle. Not seeing them, Sal clipped the shoulder of the larger of the two.
“What the hell?” the man slurred.
Smith continued, crossing the city emblem, passing the George Freeth statue, and walking out onto the pier. Once over water, he turned and faced land. The entire South Bay glittered behind him, a golden city. The tightly packed houses looked like an army that had marched to the sea in formation and now dumbly stood wondering what to do next. The rain clouds had moved inland and there remained only a few streaks of white. The Santa Monica Mountains loomed a dark mass on the horizon, tapering down to Point Dume.
Smith was breathing quickly, his hands trembling. He strode on and the rank smell of fish signaled his arrival at the end of the pier. Fishermen sat in camping chairs, others leaned against the railing staring into the darkness below. Tackle boxes, ropes, and plastic buckets sat on the ground. A small radio played ballads in Spanish, but the wind picked up their mournful notes and swept them away.
Smith saw an open space along the railing and filled it. His right foot instinctively found the lowest metal bar. He looked for the stars, but they were obscured by the glow of the city. He stood there a full minute, as if waiting for something to happen, as if waiting for some kind of message, his face full of yearning. When nothing happened, when no message came, he put his hands over his face and pulled his cheeks down before letting go. His left foot joined his right on the first bar of the railing, and when the right foot climbed to the second, the left again followed. The water below was as black as the mouth of a tomb. Smith stared into it then seemed to realize he was not alone. There was a man fishing several feet away from him, wearing a worn baseball cap and faded sweatshirt. His dark wrinkled hands were busy tying hooks to his line. Smith jumped to the ground and turned to him.
“Catch anything?” asked Smith, his voice bearing the trace of an edge.
“Not yet,” the fisherman replied.
“How long have you been at it?”
“Couple of hours.”
Smith leaned over the railing and looked again at the black water lapping the pilings. An offshore breeze whirred in his ears. His thoughts were interrupted by the unwinding sound of the fisherman casting his line. Smith wheeled toward him, words tumbling out of his mouth.
“I can understand spear fishing, going out and hunting down what you’re looking for. But how do you just stand there waiting for something to happen?”
The man shrugged. “Waiting’s part of it.”
Smith frowned.
“What if you just wait and wait and nothing happens?”
Other fishermen could now hear Smith and exchanged glances.
“We don’t know,” said the man. “We never know.”
“Well dammit!” said Smith. “What if there’s nothing out there?” His arm swept across the water before cutting an arc toward heaven.
The fisherman thought Smith was another drunk from the plaza and turned away.
“Then there’s nothing,” he said. “And we still fish.”
Smith repeated these words slowly, as if turning them over in his hands, inspecting them from every angle. Finally he chuckled, a deep and angry chuckle.
“No,” he said, stepping toward the center of the pier and addressing everyone. “That’s not what you do. You don’t go on fishing.”
Some of the fishermen snickered, the faces of others hardened. Smith continued.
“Look at you! Have any of you caught anything? If you want to come out and sit, then sit. But don’t pretend you’re actually doing anything else. If there’s nothing out there, you don’t still fish. You give up the whole game!”
With that Smith took two strides toward a white bucket, and with a violent kick, knocked it over, sending mackerel skidding across the pavement and leaving streaks of blood.
The owner of the bucket, a heavy man with a tattoo peeking above his jacket collar, immediately advanced toward Sal. Several people tried to hold him back, but he brushed them aside the way a straining horse brushes away flies. Smith saw him coming, but neither braced himself nor flinched. His only motion was to raise his arms as if preparing for an embrace. The man reached Smith, seized the lapels of his coat, and prepared to deliver a crushing blow to his face. He wound back his fist and paused just long enough for a voice to break through the commotion.
“He’s got one!” shouted someone.
Eyes followed the outstretched arm of the voice and passed from his pointing finger to an old man who had been ignoring the scuffle. They moved from the man to his pole and from his pole to his line. For a long time there seemed to be nothing. But then they saw the tug, an enormous tug. The man holding Smith saw it, lowered his arm, and swung to the railing along with the rest of the crowd. They watched as the old man switched between pulling back on the pole and reeling in the line. Suddenly a black shape broke the surface of the water. It spun and the lights of the pier shone on the blind white underbelly of a California halibut.
“Que grande,” said the fishermen to whom Smith first had spoken. He turned toward Smith, smiling and pointing at the fish as if to say, “See? I told you.”
His arms hanging limply at his sides, Smith stood without speaking. He watched as the fish was netted and hoisted onto the pier, its strange eyes on its black side, its fat mouth wrapped around the hook.
He apologized profusely to the fisherman whose bucket he had kicked and then continued to look at the fish. To him it was a great sign, a great wonder. All the anger had drained from his face, but the yearning had returned. He took a seat on a bench and looked out to sea. It appeared as though some great arm had swept across the sky, clearing away the clouds.
The tide flowed, and the sea was full. Fishermen packed their gear and returned to shore. The bars emptied, and taxis, lining the street as if in a procession, collected staggering people and disappeared up Pier Avenue. The tide washed across the barnacles on the pilings, and they opened their plates. Several pigeons sat sleeping in a row on the roof of the lifeguard headquarters. A stillness came over everything. The plaza, The Strand, the beach, the pier — they were all empty. At least the pier seemed empty, for there remained at its end the shape of a man. Long after everyone else had left, he sat looking out to sea. He was still there at dawn, and as the sun rose, flinging its warm rays across his body, Solomon Smith’s face broke into the beginnings of an eternal smile. ER