Treading Water
William Ogden Haynes
On the Gulf Coast of Florida, there’s a line of one-story
beach houses surrounded by tidal wetlands, estuaries,
bays, and mangrove swamps. And among these structures
is a house painted in camouflage where an army veteran
lives, a survivor of war, injury, loneliness and the bottle.
All his windows are covered with thick, dark drapes. His
mind is a labyrinth of locked doors and some that stay open
too long. The television keeps him company, but he ignores
it. The house hasn’t been cleaned in months, there are dirty
dishes, an unmade bed, and his prosthetic leg tossed in a
corner. He has no family, and lives on a disability payment
from the army. Except for giving him that damned leg, the
VA has been useless in helping him with physical therapy,
alcohol abuse and depression. As each day goes by, he’s
barely holding on, treading water. But this evening, he sits
on the deck drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, his good leg resting
on an ice chest filled with beer. In the orange-pink sunset, a
light breeze is just strong enough to flick nearby palm fronds
like hands gently waving goodbye. The only sounds are
the breaking of small waves. And out on the water, just
a few miles offshore, a sailboat heels over in a gust. He’s
not much of a swimmer, but after a couple more beers,
this just might be the day he decides to swim out there,
leaving his house, the VA, and his artificial leg behind.
~ ~ ~
MAY 2026
William Ogden Haynes
On the Gulf Coast of Florida, there’s a line of one-story
beach houses surrounded by tidal wetlands, estuaries,
bays, and mangrove swamps. And among these structures
is a house painted in camouflage where an army veteran
lives, a survivor of war, injury, loneliness and the bottle.
All his windows are covered with thick, dark drapes. His
mind is a labyrinth of locked doors and some that stay open
too long. The television keeps him company, but he ignores
it. The house hasn’t been cleaned in months, there are dirty
dishes, an unmade bed, and his prosthetic leg tossed in a
corner. He has no family, and lives on a disability payment
from the army. Except for giving him that damned leg, the
VA has been useless in helping him with physical therapy,
alcohol abuse and depression. As each day goes by, he’s
barely holding on, treading water. But this evening, he sits
on the deck drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon, his good leg resting
on an ice chest filled with beer. In the orange-pink sunset, a
light breeze is just strong enough to flick nearby palm fronds
like hands gently waving goodbye. The only sounds are
the breaking of small waves. And out on the water, just
a few miles offshore, a sailboat heels over in a gust. He’s
not much of a swimmer, but after a couple more beers,
this just might be the day he decides to swim out there,
leaving his house, the VA, and his artificial leg behind.
~ ~ ~
MAY 2026
