The suburban loser walks toward the beach alongside his eldest son. His youngest son and wife walk a few feet ahead, his youngest son swinging a large beer growler back and forth like a long-armed ape. They pass Victorian homes with covered porches where elderly couples sit on rocking chairs drinking white wine with blankets on their laps because the wind off the water gets chilly at night. Groups of college kids rush by, boys without shirts and girls with bikinis, all of them laughing and weaving between the locals walking dogs, families pushing strollers, and the suburban loser’s youngest son whose beer belly hangs over his waistband like a half-moon. He turns around and tells the suburban loser and his eldest son they’re walking too fucking slow. The suburban loser ignores him. Then his youngest son laughs and starts jogging toward the beach, knocking the takeout container of fries from his mother’s hands as he passes her which makes him laugh even louder. Seagulls swarm it before she can pick it up. The suburban loser’s youngest son doesn’t make it far before he stops to take a swig of beer from the growler. His eldest son asks how he can even still be drinking after everything he had at dinner, but the suburban loser ignores him, too. What the fuck do either of them know about life? At the beach, the suburban loser and his eldest son sit on a bench near the parking lot. His youngest son and wife join the crowd on the sand. His youngest son lifts the beer growler to his lips again, the sun now struggling to penetrate the dark amber glass. He finishes it off and drops to the sand to play with an off-leash dog that came by, rolling around and laughing like an idiot. His wife is staring straight ahead, watching the sunset. What a fucking disappointment, the suburban loser says from back on the bench near the parking lot, more to himself than to his eldest son next to him. It’s the first thing he’s said in over an hour. He’s had a headache since driving up north the day before.