Most lovers would like to be left alone. All alone so no one can see them. And with that in mind I left Brigham and Kat under the pier. It was late enough that most tourists, surfers, and the families with their many children had all gone home. Left were the couples in their hideaway corners, the drunkards from the mouth of bars, and the old fishermen. Walking the old streets, everything was closed. Stores with lights off, lonely bartenders slammed doors saying, “You can go home now.” When the streets had nothing left to offer I dragged my legs along the pier. Old planks, old enough to feel as if they could fall from under your feet at any moment. They lasted another day as I walked down the pier. Orange glow of the lights illuminated the water below.

          Old men, Mexican and white, were casting into the sea for the night’s catch. Old fishermen shadows casted onto the old-as-the-earth wooden planks. I sat under an orange light on the bench dedicated to Mike and Cheryl Thorpe. Decorative carvings in the wood of rude anarchy symbols and “John loves Susie” and backwards swastikas and junior high 420’s. Looked into the dark corners and saw these Johns and Susies grasping at each other. Fishermen cast lines. Punk skater kids skate on sidewalks. Teenagers with baseball caps smoke a joint. And what have I to offer the bench? What do I have to carve?    

          At this point I lost all connection with everything around me. Not a rod to cast, nor a woman to kiss; not even a joint to smoke. No connection to it but everything around me fit together and blanketed me. I pulled the blanket tighter and it said, “You’re not a part of the show! You’re just here to watch!”

          And yes, life, God, earth; I am just here to watch.