Remember (Walking in the Sand)
“Not One Domino Shall Fall” has brought us from the sky to the desert and the world of American politics. In the series’ final installment, the narrator finds himself wandering the shores of a resort.
I was staying at a resort in Southeast Asia. I wasn’t what you would call a “resort guy,” so I was already feeling uncomfortable. The locals were friendly and outgoing, but every time I was in the breakfast line waiting for an omelet or sitting at one of the swim-up bars, my thighs going all pruney from the hours of stewing and drinking, I got the feeling that I shouldn’t be there, that my presence was an affront, an ahistorical abomination. The bartender would make me a Mai Tai and smile with these big white teeth. I would take the drink, too ashamed to smile back.
The only time I could relax was at night, walking the beach alone, kicking up sand, whistling old doo-wop songs to myself. After a while, I’d get out of my head, let myself take in the scenery: the big fat moon smiling at me, the waves gently whispering, the wind tickling the back of my neck. Once, I was pretty sure I saw a whale, and the sheer magnitude of its presence brought tears to my eyes. Odds are it was a large piece of driftwood, but I didn’t care.
It was on one of these nights I kicked at something big and round in the sand and it rolled down the beach, catching the moonlight. The moon had been full for weeks now, which was certainly a curious occurrence.
I picked up the object, smooth and bleached white like a fossil, and flipped it over. The hollow eye sockets of a human skull stared back at me. I didn’t know what to do so I named the skull Ed and took him back to my hotel room.
Ed and I sat across from each other, just sort of staring at one another. I tried asking him questions, but I couldn’t get the words right and he wasn’t particularly forthcoming. I could tell just by looking at him that he knew the secrets. He knew why I was stuck here in this hotel, doomed to walk the beach for eternity.
“Ed,” I said, “What happened here? Why is this friendly place so full of death?”
Ed didn’t say anything.
I decided to take him with me to the lunch line the next morning. I didn’t imagine he would want any lumpia or fresh durian, but it didn’t seem right to leave him in the room all by his lonesome. As we went through the line the woman working the omelet bar stopped me. She asked me who my friend was. I said I wasn’t sure, so I just called him Ed.
She told me and Ed to meet her after dark, after her shift was over, and we agreed. We walked down to the beach, me and Ed, the sand cool and fine between my toes. The moon was full again. As beautiful as it was, it was starting to give me the creeps.
I followed the blaze of an enormous bonfire and found the woman. She was by herself, so I asked her how she managed to light this gigantic fire. She ignored me and took Ed from under my arm then set him down. She spoke to him in a language I didn’t understand.
“I tried talking to him,” I said. “He didn’t have much to say.”
“That’s because he’s not Ed,” she said. “He’s my father.”
“Oh,” I said.
That’s when I heard the voice. It wasn’t so much in my ears, as it was like my bones were vibrating, spelling out a message. This beach had always been beautiful, but it used to be home to many people. Not too long ago, a man had come from far away, thinking the beach would make a real nice place for a hotel. Some of the locals disagreed, so the man came up with a solution. He split the locals into two groups. He took one group aside and promised them great riches if they would help him. All they had to do was deal with the other group, the holdouts. Polite company wouldn’t have called them a death squad, but as I stood on the beach with my bones rattling, I couldn’t think of a better term.
This beach is bloody, vibrated the skull. And you’re here drinking our blood.
I looked at the woman. She shrugged.
Something in that gesture made it clear to me this would be my fate. For as long as bones littered the sand and the ocean was salted with the tears of the dead and their bereft, I would be doomed to walk this beach.
I didn’t know what to do so I kept walking, hoping that someday I would be set free from this paradise. Even still, it wasn’t all bad. The breakfast line would be open again tomorrow. And it was undeniable. The omelets were delicious.
Jeremy Steen lives and writes in Milwaukee, Wisconsin and has previously published work in the Oxford American, New World Writing Quarterly, The Racket, Rejection Letters, The Sublunary Review, among others.
Follow him on Bluesky.