Drunk Ocean Revival by Jacklyn Corley Thin strips of ice glaze the surface of the sea and, inevitably, are tugged into the crest of a wave, melting under the weight of the white caps. The water froths over the sand, washing away a dusting of snow and leaving behind a frozen coat. I brush down the plank on the last step and sit on the wood, hiding the toes of my sneakers in a mound of loose sand. I dig out my cell phone and flip it open. It's too early for the call. There aren't any joggers or dog walkers tackling the Ocean Grove Boardwalk in the pre-dawn darkness. I would be alone on the beach, as well, save for one slouched, older man in loose sweatpants and a worn wool duffle coat. He strolls at the water's edge, tugging his coat against his body, and nods when he sees I've noticed him. I return the gesture as he passes and the shadows under the frayed bill of his Yankees cap shift, rewarding me with a muddled smile. My phone alarm buzzes. It’s time to call. The noise goes but my body's still vibrating when Terry picks up on the other end and mumbles irritably about the hour. "You okay? You need me to come get you?" he says. "Did you go to Peter's thing yesterday?" "Yeah, yeah I did." His voice is strained. He's ambling into oblivion—most of my old high school friends are - into a haze of stolen whiskey, weak marijuana, and basement keg parties they’re too old to be attending. I'm the only one who finished college on time, finished at all, and fled into a steady job. It took me at least two years before I realized there weren't any intangible rewards for such diligence. "Are you going there this morning?" he asks. "I haven't decided yet. Did they have him open or closed?" "Open," he says. "Did the place do a good job with him? How did he look?" "Maybe you shouldn't go," he says. "People would understand if you didn't go. It's really soon after James, people would understand." No, they won’t understand. People will notice my absence. I've always been the responsible one, the one who calls on birthdays and faithfully attends their band gigs at empty lean-to beach bars. I stop by their houses, even when they have disappeared on some New Brunswick coke bender, and assure their parents that they will find their way. I stop in front of the announcements corkboard before the start of my shift at the library archives and look for new job
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