Winter Morning on the Beach

Steve woke up feeling cold. His 53-year-old bones really felt it. Sometime during the night, his blanket had slipped off the bed. January at the Jersey Shore is usually frigid. He called Jake, his Irish setter, who barked in response. It was long past the time Jake would want to be let out.

He got out of bed and quickly got dressed; his morning shave and shower would wait. He needed to feel the fresh salt air in his lungs. He grabbed Jake’s leash and together they braved the wind as they walked the two blocks to the beach.

The dunes were a bit higher than during the season, thanks to workers with power shovels. The passageway to the beach was narrow. The wind kicked up, almost blowing his Mets baseball cap off. He checked his Apple watch and realized he should have put on an extra sweatshirt. It was only 36 degrees. When he got to the beach, he saw it was deserted. He picked up a stick and threw it. Jake, playing his role to the hilt, chased after it.

High tide was rolling in, each wave pounding the surf harder and making more foam. Steve stood and looked at the water, mesmerized by its dark power. Jake returned with the stick and dropped it in front of his master. He looked up at him, mouth open, waiting for Steve to toss it again.

But Steve needed to talk and Jake was a perfect companion. He wouldn’t argue.  “Jake, we’re almost broke, my friend.”

Jake’s eyes met Steve’s.  The setter wore a quizzical look on his face.

“I probably should have told you this, buddy, but we’re staying in that nice house on my brother-in-law’s dime. I told him I needed a place to think things through, maybe get started on a new novel.” He picked up the stick threw it as far as he could. He wanted to give Jake a little time to think about their situation. He walked toward the water.

Jake barked and chased after the stick, his paws kicking up the sand. Another man was standing down near the water now, about fifty feet away, with a fishing pole. Jake ran back to where Steve had stopped, about half-way between the dunes and the water.

“I know what you’re thinking, Jake. I wrote a best seller. I can do it again.” He looked toward the sky, calculating. “That was five years ago. You were just a puppy.”

Jake pushed the stick with his snout, his way of telling his master to throw it again.

“In a minute, Jake, Ole boy.” He stuck his hand in his pocket and pulled out a treat for his friend. “It takes a long time to write a novel, Jake. We need to make some money now, or we’ll both be eating Milk-Bone for breakfast.” He threw the stick.

Until a month ago, Steve was teaching creative writing at Montclair State University. He didn’t like teaching, but he was able to eke out a good living for a while with his teacher’s salary and the dwindling residuals he earned from his book. Eventually, the department’s dean got complaints about Steve’s teaching style and lack of preparation. Counseling Steve changed nothing. He told Steve the fall semester would be his last. 

Jake returned, this time with a dead seagull. Steve laughed. “Dinner?” he asked. “It’s not that bad, yet. Maybe you can catch us a flounder.”

The waves were getting bigger now and the wind was beginning to howl. Steve reattached Jake’s leash and the partners returned to the house. Steve’s phone was ringing. He picked it up. The area code was Manhattan. “This is Steve.”

“Steve, my name is Simon McCammon. Have you heard of me?”

“Of course! You won the Oscar, best director for Shipwrecked.”

“Very good! Listen, I’m holding a copy of your novel in my hand. Are you currently under contract with a film production company?”

“Nothing definite. I’m looking for the right fit.” Steve bit his lip, surprised by his nerve.

“I’m aware you’re not working with the woman who sold your book. Are you working with a new agent?”

“No, I’m between agents at the moment.” Steve couldn’t believe his own words. It had been three years since he had an agent. 

“I really like the story. In the right hands I think this could be huge.”

“I think so, too” Steve said.

“So, we’re interested in optioning your novel. Would you be willing to assist with the script?”

“Of course.”

“Let’s do this,” McCammon said, “I’ll send you a contract. I plan to produce and direct this one.”

“Sounds good. Do you have a number in mind, for buying the option, I mean?”

“I’ll give you $25,000 for a twelve-month option.”

“No. That isn’t enough,” Steve said. As if he couldn’t believe his ears, Jake let out a low growl.

“What do you have in mind?” McCammon asked.

“I was thinking of $50,000.”

McCammon let out a low whistle. “Tell you what I’ll do. I’ll give you $40,000 for eighteen months. If the movie gets made, you’ll make a lot more. It will all be spelled out in the contract,” he said. “Deal?”

“Deal.”

Steve and Jake went for a run on the boardwalk that afternoon. It didn’t seem so cold. That night, he broiled a porterhouse steak for dinner, medium rare. Jake enjoyed a New York strip, raw.