Thoughts on Foraging

They make their way down to the beach. The sky swells with clouds above, harder and more material than the land. Elliot disturbs him; leading him down to the water, as if Will is the visitor. He’s taken off – and his blond head can be seen paces ahead, the same color as the dead cord grass that lines the path. Ahead, he runs his hand through the vegetation, picking up small things from the ground. He stops to look up for short stretches, then down. 

Eventually he rounds a bend and Will loses him, but there he is, waiting at the end of the sand path with the ocean behind him. He has a blade of dry grass in his mouth. Will decides he must think of himself as immensely charismatic. 

“Here,” says Elliot, and hands him a small, flesh-colored conch shell. 

“Oh,” says Will, “thanks.” He takes it. 

“Put it to your ear. You’ll hear traffic.”

“Traffic?”

“Yeah. Like, the sound of cars passing your window at night.”

“I thought you were supposed to hear the sea in a conch shell.” 

“Well, yeah. But it sounds the same. And you already have the sea. I thought you might want to hear the sound of cars, instead.”

Will looks at Elliot, unsure of how to respond. Silently he raises the conch shell to his ear. The sound is familiar; a static of particulate matter. He imagines the minuscule droplets of salt water colliding in air and tries to hear traffic, but he can only hear the sea; busy, verbal, dense. He takes the conch from his ear and moves to return it. 

“Keep it,” says Elliot.

“Oh,” Will replies, “thanks.” 

Elliot turns and walks towards the ocean as if he owns it, knowing Will will follow. It is annoying, slightly, but so is every small act of kindness, and Will registers he is upset about the conch, which he now pockets. He knows his life is small and sad to Elliot. His only consolation is that it will soon be Elliot’s as well. 

Elliot stands at the lip of the water, then walks further. It is freezing, and the wind batters their bodies, but he is now standing up to his ankles in the surf; his shoes still on his feet and his pants unrolled. Will stands gingerly at the edge, watching. Elliot turns, and then, all of a sudden, sneezes. It is a ridiculous, girly, high-pitched sneeze. Will watches with satisfaction as the blade of grass drops from his mouth into the water. 

“Bless you,” he says. 

“Man, don’t bless me. I am not about that God stuff. Hail satan, if you say anything at all.” says Elliot, – this is so obnoxious that Will has no response – “anyway, I should’ve known. I’m allergic to grass.”

“You’re allergic to grass?” asks Will. His tone of voice is almost mean.

“Yeah. Grass, dust, and horses. It’s a miracle I’m alive. I grew up in the city. For the first 5 years of my life the most I knew of grass was the fake turf we had for my dog. Plus, we had a cleaning lady, so no dust, and don’t even mention horses. Horses were practically mythical.” 

“I love horses. I love grass. I even love dust,” says Will. He loves dust because it means a room has sat, unchanged, forever. It means permanence, but he doesn’t say this. 

“Me too! I have to start a regimen of exposure therapy.”

“I can find you grass and dust, but I don’t know about horses.” 

“Maybe you can just show me pictures of them. Flashcards. I’ll train myself out of it.” Elliot is smiling again, and Will laughs, just a little bit. 

“Have you ever heard of Wim Hof?” he asks, offering more of himself to the conversation. 

“I think I might’ve heard of him.”

“He’s this Dutch guy that trains himself to withstand incredibly cold water. He can control his body temperature at will.”

“You’re beginning to make me think that my allergies are a personal weakness.”

“Well I’m not saying they’re not.” 

Elliot laughs. They are friends. It is this simple.