In the distance, the waves crashed on the seawall. The low growl of the wind was broken by the din of metal on metal as the chains and clasps of the swing crashed into frame. At a nearby city marina, the masts of sailboats danced silently like ballerinas to a tune heard only by nature.
Behind him, the ascending and descending doppler pitch of a jogger's shoes as they pass by. He doesn't turn to look. In the sky above, the clouds wisp by as if they were the spirits embraced by the first inhabitants of these lands. Motorists in the distance, a lightning crash on the north shore of the bay.
His cellphone is off.
Right now, he isn't a programmer or technician, bag boy or night stocker. He isn't a cashier or a clerk, a photographer or mechanic. He isn't a lawyer or janitor, isn't a pastor or Rabi. He isn't a salesman or youth coach, isn't a writer or electrician. Not right now.
No desk phones, no pagers, no cellphones, no doorbells. No lines, no credit checks, no grass to cut and no kids banging on the bathroom door. No emails, no text messages, no overdue bills, no checkbook to balance. No utility bills, no double dates, no performance reviews and no coworkers or friends..