Zingo

They ran in winter, swam in summer and watched in spring and autumn. Always there was the ball. It wasn’t the rain that kept people inside, he thought, it was the white. On white days he stayed home, shifting lamps and testing new bulbs. Zingo was the companion who pulled him out and away for the last nine years.

From the balcony above the rails, they reigned over a hazel leaf of beach. In spring, when sun first overpowered white, people emerged and crowded the little parking lot. They bustled their flip-flop shod children down to the water, cameras obstructing sail boats and islands. He counted seconds before the children would run, screaming cold wet shock while parents squeezed off a few more shots to push at office-mates and in-laws.

He used to imagine them scuttling from the beach to the instant processing hut, discovering none of the shots turned out. More recently, he saw glowing faces cropping litter and strangers, emailing surviving images in generic form letters to lists of contacts. Now he knew their lives were online before they even left the beach. Exploring the world through cubicle lenses. They lusted for comments and views, not noticing all the other silhouettes, same poses, same beaches, same freezing children with forced smiles.

This day was autumn, his other favorite watching season. He would run with Zingo before the crowd arrived, juggling their neglected gear, justifying the purchase with this first and last exploitation.  Chaircoolercamerafrisbeethermosballbucketkiteraftbasketcorkscrewblanketlighter.  He might bring an extra bag to clean up the yesterday they had already captured and forgotten.  He might bring his camera, looking down for driftwood, or up for eagles. He would print the outside in color and hang it inside for days of white.

The dog wasn’t always Zingo.  For a few days, he was just Dog.  Then they went to the desert.  Dog huddled in the damp liquor box where he had been found behind the strip-mall.  He was scared of the bonfire, and burrowed deeper into the borrowed shirt.  There was drinking and smoking and singing.  Then running the car off the cliff, waiting for the explosion that never came.  They smoked some more, dancing dream stories of all they could have done with the money they pooled to purchase the car.  Someone said Dog needed a real name.  Someone else said Bingo.  They passed the dog around and sang the song until the B became a Z and Zingo had a name-O of his own.

On this morning, the beach was empty. He ran with Zingo, stopping for a game of fetch with the yellow ball. He threw one farther than usual, and toed wet parchment in sand as he waited for Zingo’s return. He picked up the paper, placing it gently, dripping into the bag. The words ran away, but he could read, “let me be.” Let me be what? He picked up more leavings and watched as Zingo returned, slower than before. He gave love to the panting dog, then tossed the ball again. Zingo gracefully sank in the sand, fetching only with his eyes.