Infirmity

"A beach is a place where a man can feel

He's the only soul in the world that's real."

— From "Bell Boy," (Quadraphenia, by the Who)

"Show us, then!" the man whispered urgently. "Show us what you can do. Quickly, now. Hurry. Before it's too late."

"I beg your pardon?" I said.

"Oh, that's rich. You begging me. And to pardon you, at that." he laughed. Then he grabbed the sand where his legs should have been, moaning in phantom pain.

The cruelty of the scene was not overstated. Someone had fashioned, out of the sand, two replicas of his legs for him. When he braced them to splint the pain he imagined, the sand crumbled, ruining them. Now he screamed.

"What can I do?" I pleaded.

"Rebuild them!" he answered. "Show me and the rest of us how you help people--like me and the rest of us!"

I quickly cupped my hands to reform his smashed sand-shins, then patted them firmly to lock in their shapes. He exhaled in relief. "Thank you," he said. "Those are nice ones, indeed."

I realized that the cruelty of the scene I had surmised before was mistakenly assumed on my part. I had not been the first one here. I wondered who would think of my own cruelty in forming his new legs.

"Could you make me a friend?" he asked.

"I don't know what you mean," I confessed.

"Like you made my legs. So beautiful and strong. Do it next to me but don't stop at the legs. Make the rest of my buddy."

"Your buddy?"

"Yea. I said, 'friend,' c'mon."

"I'm no sand artist," I said, a bit frustrated.

"Do it!" he commanded sternly. "If you don't do anything for anyone else, you can do this for me!"

I knew I probably could fashion a torso, arms, and a head during the time it would take me to think over this entire complicated and bizarre scenario. And I knew I wasn't sure I'd even arrive at the right decision. Rather than do nothing, I began to gather and shape the sand next to him. I'd rather be wrong doing that than not do it and be wrong. Logic didn't apply, that was clear. I was on unfirm ground here, as tentative as any sand castle or man doomed to the next tide.

"Not bad," he said, surveying my work.

"I suppose," I agreed, but it was more of a capitulation.

And with that he stood up, miraculously, brushed off the loose sand, and ran away, leaving me with his friend.

I plopped down next to my creation, confused more than relieved at the man's astounding and impossible transformation; and angry more than amazed.

"Well, pal," I told the sand doppelgänger, "ain't that something."

The sandman turned his head and nodded in agreement. "Well, done," he told me.

Further unfirm ground here. Could anything make sense now?

"Do you mind?" he asked.

"Not at all," I answered, giving up to reason, the laws of physics, and reality in general. "What can I do for you?" Like some rogue wave, I was in it and just needed to ride it out.

"Well, I'm just plopped down here, all intact and better off than the other guy. I mean, I've got legs at the start. Hard to complain, right?"

"I suppose..."

"But you know, tides comin' in and I'm a little nervous about that. Could you maybe move me farther away?"

Thus, there was one thing left in this quagmire of loose quicksand irrationality and impossibility. It was the need to do. Do for someone else.

Now I took the time to think. I thought long and hard. And that's when I realized that you just can't fix everyone.

"No, my friend. That's ridiculous. You're no more real to me than my ability to create a person from sand. What's real to me is what matters. That's only fair, right? So, I'm going back to my world where everything makes sense. Where I belong and you don't."

"A lotta good that'll do me," he huffed. But I didn't care.