The Reef - 1995
W. Dire Wolff

Half a decade from a new century we ask, “Is this the world we were promised?” Everyone bought tickets at the New York’s World Fair. Buckminister Fuller introduced us to the geodesic dome, so we moved to the wilderness and emerged whole. Stumbling to the doorstep of the last decade in the rubble of Reagan, Bush, and the crowning of Hillary.

“Too Late!” we cried. “Too Late!” the great mountain echoed.

I drifted past the tye dye store and bought a brand new Brooks Brother White. Hot from the iron and as crisp as a fresh twenty from the ATM. Jerry pulled snug around my throat. Breezed up to the curb to scurry past the valet in the lobby. It was all for the business, but I got lost as she dropped her lipstick. Eyes meeting in the twinkle, then harried embarrassment of paper shuffle. The elevator rushes to the waiting of the electronic chamber.

Busy, busy little fingers that tap, tap, tap to the CD player groovin’ on the nightstand. Password accepted and everyone comes on line. Welcome back my friends to the call that never ends. Cyberspace oozing out of the monitor in holographic transmissions. Murky levers of the new horizon lifting us from the dark ages to the light of information, communication, and fascination. Techno zap on the keyboard rap.

Morning found us, like it always does. The clubs had closed long ago and the beat of the Rave was washed away in the chill out zone. Just the two if us with the Jeep’s top down. Heater blowing to protect us from the chill of morning fog hanging on the edges of the little thunder rolling on the sand. The salt water would soon disguise the blood shot eyes with likely excuses. Once again we paddle out in the first dim light pushing through the fog.

The first wave found me. I took and followed it along it’s little valley. I carved her initials in the face and floated back to the top. Paddled back out to find another, even better than the other. It was just like her.


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