(…in which, thinks Doug, the narrator, the primary character and the author become one and
contemplate cliché, friendship and dramatic structure).
Character, character, character. Edward the omnipresent, Marty the unseen, Serge (he’s the
waiter; haven’t gotten to him quite yet) and, of course, me. Ah, and perhaps we could
accommodate our fine city. It has plenty of character, does it not? City on the sea, city under
the blue sky, warm city, ideal CITY, the very prototype. . . .
Doug contemplates these characters as he stares deep into the blue of the sky, his nape,
elbows and ankles pressing against the dampish sand. Tasting the salt in the air, he can hear
the swooshing and shooshing of the waves caressing the sand around him. His toes are
intermittently gulped by the swell of the sea. He’s thinking about friendship.
MartyEdwardDoug. What was the connection that is now gone? Why, no matter how he tries,
is it so impossible to resurrect?
While he contemplates the ephemerality of life’s connections, he is by no means sad.
Simultaneously, he’s thinking about the pleasure of isolation, of getting lost in his present
idyllic environ. And I’m not trying to weigh this pleasure against the comfort of having solid
friends with whom I can share most everything. And I’m not trying to weigh this pleasure
against the (foreign) idea of being solidly encased in some ideal happy “relationship.” I’m not
comparing unequal clichés. He enjoys this position for an hour or two, wary of going bask to
trying to mend something that is beginning to seem all but lost. Doug, after all, strongly prefers
pleasure and happiness to the alternatives.
