Dollars, Boats, Underwear Dumplings
By: Liam Brodentel
Tags: Short Story, Travel, Fiction, Self, Wealth

Wealth, poverty, and contentment the world over.

Photo by Victor Mui on Unsplash

Every Saturday morning, I fell in love.

I fell in love with boats. Their sense of calm energy, the adventure they seemed to promise, how stately and confident they looked, the way they made me feel, their romantic aura, their curves and billowy — are we still talking about boats?

I lived in a small seaside town. Every Saturday morning, I would go for a run down the uneven brick and cobblestone streets until I made it to the harbor downtown. Once there, I would grab a warm drink from the local waterfront café and take a stroll along the docks, greeting the sunrise as I gawked at the boats. Massive yachts. Majestic sailboats. Retirement funds.

On each of these mornings without fail, I’d find myself dreaming about owning my own boat. Big enough for my wife, me, and our dog to live on. I could see it perfectly. We’d sail up and down the coast, maybe bring along a few bicycles that we would use to get around whenever we made landfall. Sailors still use words like “landfall,” right?

Maybe we’d even sail to Europe. I could imagine filling out the customs and immigrations form, getting to that line where it asks what mode of transportation you arrived on. I’d whip a checkmark next to “Boat” and, where it asks you to list the ship’s name, I’d proudly jot the name of my precious vessel. My heart skipped a beat just thinking about that. I’d get to name my own boat and list it on immigration forms! How cool would that be? The name would have to be incredibly clever and tongue-in-cheek, yet sophisticated.

Yeah, owning a boat would be amazing.

On one of these Saturday morning envy rituals, I was so lost in my fantasy — trying to decide what color sailing shoes would look best on my feet as I strolled the deck of my Harambe McBoatface — that I nearly tripped over the homeless man fast asleep on the ground in front of me.

Stumbling over his backpack brought me back down to earth — in more ways than one—as I nearly smashed my face on the boardwalk.

What was he doing here? Of all places, surrounded by these monuments to wealth? These weren’t just your typical fishing boats. Most of these yachts cost more than my house. More spacious, too. This homeless drifter was sleeping next to hundreds of millions of dollars worth of plastic, wood, and metal — gazing at them all from the view of his twenty dollar sleeping bag, everything he owned in a ratty backpack.

I stopped and stood there in the morning light — looking at him, looking at the boats, looking at myself — and I sat down on the ground , shoulders slumped, even level with the man.

When I saw him, really saw him, the boats turned to ash right there in front of me, changing the water into a grey sludge.

Why did I even want a boat? So that, one day, I would dock at the harbor and my luxury would be the last thing this man sees before falling asleep on the wet ground?

Did he dream of owning a ship someday, too? Or, were his ambitions more modest — say, a sandwich?

I thought about talking to the man, maybe ask about his story or just let him know I acknowledged his existence, but it was far too early in the morning and I didn’t want to wake him. Whether he was a criminal, drug addict, mentally ill, or any other label that we call these people, I would never know.

What I did know, however, was that I was only one debilitating injury, one missed paycheck, one stroke of bad luck away from being in a position not so unlike his. I likely had much more in common with him than with whoever enjoyed these ships in their leisure time.

I sat there, imagining what a conversation with this man would play out like, until my sadness turned to mild frustration. Surely, in a society that put a man on the moon, created the internet, and invented the bluetooth smart toaster — in a world that was capable of so much— couldn’t we find a solution for people like this guy?

Or, maybe everyone else was like me — too distracted by visions of prosperity that we don’t notice who we’re leaving behind until we trip over them on the sidewalk.

Wait, why was this even bothering me? He wasn’t my problem to fix. Why should this guy make me feel bad about wanting a little more leisure in my life? Wanting more success? Wanting a boat? How dare he — simply by sleeping there — taint my dreams and wants?

That must be why he chose that spot! To shame the well-to-do by forcing his existence on their conscious! To make them feel dirty by their success. It wasn’t fair!

It wasn’t fair.

There was something else, though. This man, this mental diatribe, had reminded me of something. A memory pushed back to the depths. Then it struck me. I had been here before. Not here, here — but in this situation. Thinking these same thoughts, years ago.

It was the underwear dumplings.