He didn't understand how it came to this, though it wasn't a surprise or out of the blue. Yet, the situation's extent and immovability still shocked him.

It started with hope. A balanced vision of work and life that would support happiness. All key components were identified. A thoughtful path for each was mapped out.

There was the stuff: access to things, goods, even luxury items.

There was work. An employer and coworkers would validate his self-worth. Successes, praise, and achievement would fuel him.

Next was peace—the quiet mind. He knew that place: just himself—comfortable, ageless, aware. No more interruptions would drag him from that spot.

There would be health: a continuous connection with the body and energy, a full spirit, and an engaged body-maintenance plan.

With these pieces imagined, it was all set. He even experienced the joy of this future phase of his life—sometimes, in the quiet moments as he tried to find calm amid his present. In those moments, he would go there—to the future.

Where there would be less noise, less chaos, less conflict. No more difficult people. Difficult people and conflict were a sign of the past, of what everyone called dysfunction, and were to be avoided and removed from.

He knew this plan was risky. Some key underpinnings weren’t solid. They appeared secure—on a solid foundation—but he was sure many were not. He also sensed sinkholes, tender spots, maybe even a large gap or two. He had no idea where they were or how to find them, or how he would have addressed them.

He entered the world knowing there were these unseeable vulnerabilities and that he’d have to compensate to compete. This was part of the deal.

The slippage started early. It showed up. There was confusion from others where he expected confidence, frustration where he expected affirmation, and disappointment when he expected praise. At first, this didn't erode his grand vision but energised him to be more passionate. Though deep down he was scared.

He didn't know what needed fixing or where the issues lay. It was like key systems were starting to fail in a smoke-filled cockpit, making everything unseeable. Fumbling hands felt knobs, levers, switches—he lacked enough confidence or experience to press any. The ride was bumpy and chaotic. Ben heard every alarm and felt every jolt and dip.

Failure, disappointment, and falling short continued. He knew the problem was him, but couldn't pinpoint what was damaged. What is happening? He watched it all unfold.

As Ben drove home down Marsh Ave, he saw the water tower in the distance. Its monstrous structure loomed against the orange sunrise—an alien silhouette over Rangely Beach. He almost expected arms to shoot out, lasers blazing. He chuckled. After passing this tower every morning for twenty years, this was the first time he’d seen it that way. The realisation reassured him: new ideas were still possible. But usually, the same thoughts about his life filled most drives to Playland.

Seeing the tower anew gave him hope for change.

https://www.rickymceachernartist.com/shop/morning-commute

Playland

It was the final closing of the garage door; it wouldn't open until late April. A puff of sandy dust rose as the grimy rubber hit the concrete, sealing the space. With luck, it would block cold and water. Rain, snow, and salt air—New England weather would test it, as always, with mixed results.

The black rubber edge was grey and brittle—a silent threat. A slight darkness washed over Ben. Another project, thing ready to fail, another worry. More work and blame awaited him. Even when his thoughts left the gasket, the gloom lingered. It had been collected.

“Another one down.” The voice was Mike’s, his familiar tone bringing comfort.

“Yeah, another year, another dollar.” Ben forced some energy out. “Let’s hope she stays sealed through winter.” He enjoyed these simple talks with Mike—the easy back-and-forth of stating the obvious. Ben remembered he didn’t need to force enthusiasm with Mike. The darkness eased a bit. Mike continued down the sidewalk, searching for the next connection, leaving Ben alone with his thoughts.

He looked up from the dusty corner by the door, trying to remember the last time he replaced that gasket. He was certain it was a Fourth of July weekend, about 15 years ago. The crowds were huge despite storms—business was “Critical Mass,” as Stan liked to say. Stan owned Playland, inherited from his dad, and often dispensed favorite phrases from his cluttered office. “You need to spend money to make money” was a classic Stan gem. He ran things for years, seated at his messy desk, pointing out the obvious.

That weekend, they replaced the seal early before crowds hit. Water from a Thursday storm had nearly damaged the new Asteroids machine. It must have been summer 81 if that was the “Playland Showcase” machine—another of Stan’s terms for the first machine at the arcade entrance.

Cody was the maintenance guy that summer. (Whatever happened to him?) Ben remembered starting the job before Playland opened to avoid the crowds. The sidewalk in front was only 3.5 feet wide, dropping right to Ocean Avenue, so they couldn't block foot traffic. Otherwise, the Town of Rangely Beach would call Ben, as they'd done many times before. Wendy, the town clerk, would call Stan with pleasantries, then politely ask for Ben. With him, she skipped small talk and went right to the complaint, violation, or demand. Afterward, Stan would always remind Ben, “She’s a nice lady, that Wendy.”

“Yeah, she’s wonderful,” Ben would say, pulling from his limited reserve of enthusiasm.

He remembered talking to Cody the afternoon before the repair, suggesting an early morning start. These situations weren’t uncommon in summer, but Ben always felt uncomfortable about them.

“Cody, we need to be here at 4:30 am to be sure we are ready to go at 8. Coffee’s on me—what do you like in it?” Ben asked, striving for warmth. Cody’s eyes lit up, pleased by the gesture. “Wow, cool, three sugars and black.” Ben pressed on. He wanted—needed—to feel like a good boss. “And what kind of muffin do you like?” Cody hesitated, suspicion showing in his gaze. “A blueberry is not bad,” he shrugged. The uncertainty lingered, and Ben felt the wave of darkness rise again, only to stay beneath the surface.

That morning stood out. In the dim pre-dawn, Cody stood under the half-open garage door, muscular arms inked, extended upwards, blue work gloves on his hands, a screwdriver in his hand. Behind him stretched the vast, dark arcade, its low ceiling fading into shadow except for a row of vibrant pinball machines—Cody must have missed that breaker. Their playful lights competed to attract the attention of distracted visitors, a testament to someone’s effort to win attention on a bustling beachfront.

Watching Cody struggle with the new seal, a beam of Atlantic sunrise bathed the scene. The deep orange light washed over Cody and Playland’s facade, sending purple shadows down the cement, extending from Cody's stretched body and the Showcase machine.

Ben let out a slight gasp and stepped back to look.

He had never seen Playland like this. It was usually projects, problems, Stan’s phrases, troublesome teens, and the ever-present smell of greasy dough.

He was stunned, almost undone, by the unexpected, raw beauty.