Went on down to the Sound to stand around on the wharf and look up and down and wonder about the locals. Three winos dumped on the grass. An Indian barfing over the railing. A septet of tourists scarfing hotdogs, pepsi, mustard, ketchup and chopped onion at a nickel extra a crinkled paper cup. Two cops just coming up to poke at the winos in the grass and let the Indian finish.

The tourists rotated their sunglasses. Bugged out over the sunny water at the snowcapped Olympics. Smacked lips. Grinned at all the beauty.

Two businessmen on lunch entered the park on the wharf. Sat on a bench in the sun. Fiddled with their ties. Laughed at each other. Removed sportcoats to reveal tailored shortsleeves, digital watches, the coppertone of a perfect weekend. In rich authentic tones they turned over lincoln continentals, sailboats, yachts, a piper cub, reno, tahoe, two weeks once in a picadilly hotel drinking nothing but seltzer because the beer was warm and the bathtub cold; then they bitched about the gals at the office.

The cops returned for the Indian. Very businesslike they prodded him with a club. Convinced him to stagger over to the van he climbed into – tired, coughing, accustomed to losing to the alien city.

The tourist carrying the cameras, the bank americard, the visacard, the first national bank card, the master charge and a commanding portion of the fat let the wrapper where his hotdog had been get away in the wind and drive the seagulls briefly crazy.

Didn’t feel so hot myself, taking the Indian’s place, leaning over the railing, looking for myself in brine lapping barnacled creosote. Went on down, to end up at the beginning, to the Sound.