Counter people in a tourist town. Always an alarming change from early summer to late. The look becomes hardened, the smiles forced and cracked like dry Earth. The final signal before all hope and compassion are lost. But can you blame them?
Look at us. We border on the unredeemable. Staring, zombie-like into hands of metal and glass. The weight of Monday’s holiday looming, just like in Jaws but with the shark, you know the end will be quick. With the American, Internet intoxicated tourist the end never really ends.
God forbid you or your town or your favorite anything ends up on the “hot” list or the “Instagram list” because then you know for sure the good, the honesty, the truth and the marrow of light will all be gone, trampled on the path to self-indulgence. The addicted masses rushing to get in line to do those things already done, already seen and already over displayed. A pitstop on the roadmap to irrelevance.
I don’t dislike these locals. In fact, I salute them. I give them imaginary awards and I tip them well, in cash, always. They swing the daily battle-ax, swimming upstream in the muddied waters of humanity. Swilling bleach and polishing their armor each night with potent brews and skunky smoke. The price of survival in this little mission-driven world of combat tourism.
And if the end comes while I’m here I’ll stand back to back with these people until our knuckles are bloody and until the last wave of socialites crumples to the shattered ground.