Ashore

(a Fashionably Short Story)

He told himself that he must stay aware. He figured that the only way he can make it out of this alive is to remain aware, aware of his surroundings but more importantly aware of time. So as the jungle sun began the daily creep up and over the jungle hills he repeated his motions with slightly less dedication than the day before. He rolled out of his makeshift bed, a Shitty Posturepedic constructed from yellow dried-out palm leaves and what he can only assume, based on his present state of bad luck, some version of poison ivy.

Up and Adam old man!

Yes, talking aloud to himself began early on in this accidental escapade, around day three and yesterday would make day seven. A rapid-fire series of chuckles begin as he sits up.

Up and Adam? Up and at ’em? Up and at themmmmm!

The beautiful jungle purgatory had become home to quite a few small victories and “Up and Adam” highlights the frequent minor level revelations. He is completely vertical by that point, gently brushing away whatever random creepy crawlies found their way to him as he slumbered as well as a healthy amount of tiny palm tree residue found upon his person.

Paradise…

He says under his breath, almost as if he doesn’t want to insult her and hurt the island’s feelings. His wish is that he might remain in her good graces awhile longer, for he is fully aware that despite his dour situation, things could get dourer…. more dour…the most dour. With one hand he works through his salty beard, even without a mirror he can tell that this massive misadventure had worked wonders on his beard and it looked glorious. With his other hand he grabbed the blue chambray shirt hanging on the neighboring tree branch. He quickly put the shirt on and fumbled around with one or two of the center buttons to complete his denim uniform…he was giving Castaway Chic.

Before he can dedicate his morning thoughts on breakfast he must first walk over to Herman, a medium sized rubber tree thriving in the center of the jungle clearing. He told himself that Herman was a rubber tree, but honestly he had no idea. In the real world he was smart, well educated and his peers would consider him quite knowledgeable. He was the guy most would instantly hit up if they were too lazy to Google, but in the jungle he was sartorially effective yet completely benign. The jungle didn’t see him, never asked for his opinion on things, Herman didn’t even bother to correct him regarding the ill labeled taxonomy, for in the jungle he was an invisible man in a supremely patinated Canadian Tux with one hell of a glorious beard.

He slipped his right hand into his left jean pocket and pulled out a brass handled Higonokami. It was a gift from his daughter two Father’s Days ago. Unlike many young adults, she cherished her time with her old man and carefully took note of his great affinity for Japanese craftsmanship and the overall American understanding of the culture. So after Sunday Brunch two Father’s Days ago he was pleasantly surprised to receive a brass handled Japanese folding knife from his favorite only child. Even though it brought a smile to his face he would have preferred a bottle of Japanese whisky. A Hibiki, a Yamazaki or a Nikka Coffey Grain all would have been more than acceptable. He could have thought about how great his kid was and what a kickass job he did as a parent over healthy whisky sips. Instead, he was often reminded of the guilt of slight disappointment by random thigh pokes as the Japanese folding knife with brass handle would often wiggle down to the very bottom of his left side pocket. However, like him, his daughter enjoys a good theme, so she tucked a folded note card inside of the knife box. The outside of the weighted cardstock simply said “Dad” in solid penmanship and the inside consisted of three handwritten lines, the first line with five syllables, seven in the second and again five syllables used in the third. Yes, she had written a special Father’s Dad haiku for her dear old dad, a poem that almost brought him to tears as he began to carve out another line into Herman’s sturdy trunk with the tip of his Higonokami blade.

Eight lines to represent the eight days of island solitude, eight days since he washed ashore with nothing but a brass Japanese folding knife and a note that read:

Even When Left All Alone

Find A Way To Remain Sharp

Because One Never Knows

______________________________

(The End)