That Friday night, we drove to Wrightsville Beach. It was still early in
the season, so despite the warm weather, there wasn't a crowd. We walked along
the shore in the moonlight and sat in the sand, talking for the better
part of an hour, watching the lanterns from Johnny Mercer's pier
reflecting on the sea. The wind coming off the ocean was just enough
to cut the unusually high humidity for that time of night. It
smelled amazing. We could see the shadows of a couple as they danced on
the water's edge, pausing to kiss occasionally as the moon glimmered off
the waves behind them. They were unaware that we were sitting in the
darkness nearby, or maybe they just didn't care.
Eventually, we got up and
went for a stroll on the pier. We walked out to the far end, to a corner
everyone else was avoiding, possibly because of the abandoned fish
lying nearby, though it gave off no smell. We leaned against the railing and looked back over the town of Wrightsville Beach, the
condos lit up and the dull gleam of a green GloStick being tossed around along the shore.
There was a strange humming in the air. It
reminded me of the sound of a wet finger running around the edge of a
wine glass. Someone had set their fishing poles in the holsters at the
edge of the pier and the lines were singing quietly.
The
lanterns, the fishermen, the lights from Wrightsville Beach on a Friday
night, were all picturesque, but after a few minutes, I turned toward
the water, and it was just...nothing. The moon wasn't hitting it from
that angle, so it was simply a thick black spreading out as far as the
eye could see. Above it was a lighter black, an ashy sky with stars
scattered across. I closed my eyes and told myself that this was space
reaching out in front of me into--as far as I could see--infinity. Then I
opened my eyes again.
It didn't work. It still looked like I was
staring at a backdrop. If I leaned over the edge of the pier far
enough, I'd touch it. If I were in the water, I could swim out to it...probably wade. If I were in a boat, I'd run into it, like in The Truman Show.
It was painted, black lower down, deep gray higher up. And I couldn't
get over how thick it felt, how heavy the darkness. I imagine this is
what the walls of the 5 & ½ Minute Hallway from House of Leaves would look like.
I
rested my chin on the railing, let an arm hang over the side. The wood
was unusually warm against my skin, almost hot, although the sun had long since set.
We
stayed there for at least half an hour, listening to the conversations
around us and the waves hitting the legs of the pier, the music of the
fishing lines and the odd laugh floating up from an unseen group
playing in the dark of the beach.
"Ready to go back?" Adam asked eventually.
"Okay...does that look like a wall to you?"
"Hmm?"
"Does
it look like we're standing in front of a huge wall and the ocean's not
even real, it's just painted on, like a part of the wall?"
"What, like in The Truman Show or something?"
"Yeah, exactly."
Adam stared out, considering. "Sure. I can see that."
I think he was just being polite.
