{"id":109173,"date":"2017-03-23T18:17:20","date_gmt":"2017-03-23T22:17:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=109173"},"modified":"2017-03-23T18:26:40","modified_gmt":"2017-03-23T22:26:40","slug":"low-tide-on-the-brown-coast","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/03\/23\/low-tide-on-the-brown-coast\/","title":{"rendered":"Low Tide on \u201cThe Brown Coast\u201d"},"content":{"rendered":"

<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Our\u00a0complete digital archive is available now.\u00a0Subscribers can read every piece\u2014every story and poem, every essay, portfolio, and interview\u2014from <\/em>The Paris Review\u2019s sixty-four-year history. Subscribe now<\/a> and you can start reading 0ur\u00a0back issues\u00a0right away. You can also try a free ten-day trial period<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n

If you ask me, there\u2019s nothing funnier than a man seeing all that he\u2019s created\u2014built, grown, accrued, whatever\u2014brought to ruin by the simple, ruthless, infuriating existence of his hapless neighbors. Such is the fate of Bob Munroe, the tragic hero in Wells Towers\u2019s short story, \u201cThe Brown Coast<\/a>,\u201d from our Spring 2002 issue.<\/p>\n

Bob wakes up on his face in his uncle Randall\u2019s shack along the muddy beaches in Florida, where he\u2019s been granted quarter while he works things out with his wife, on the condition that he fix the place up. Walking the beach one day, he finds a wondrous tide pool tucked at the reaches of a jetty. At low tide, it\u2019s teeming with exotic sea creatures, which Bob\u2014destitute and in need of beautiful things\u2014collects and deposits in an aquarium in Randall\u2019s shack.\u00a0<\/p>\n

So many scenes, as when Bob ferries his first treasured fish\u2014\u201cbig and blue\u201d with \u201cfins tapered into brilliant yellow filaments\u201d\u2014to his aquarium, are frantic, goofy, and deeply hopeless:<\/p>\n

It jerked and bounced across the rock, and Bob felt a shot of panic ricochet through his belly. He pulled his shirt off and grabbed it up with that. Then he sprinted up the bank, with the swaddled fish buckling and twisting against his chest. It was a violent and vital sensation, and Bob wondered for a moment if it was anything like this when a woman had a baby inside her. Bob ran across Derrick\u2019s yard. Claire was in a bikini on the concrete porch. She waved to him and he yelled hey but didn\u2019t stop. He ran with his flip-flops in his hand, and the oyster shells on the road hurt his feet.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Tower writes with a serious eye for the tragicomic. This scene hinges on his gifts in establishing a periphery; Claire and Derrick, Bob\u2019s neighbors, circle the perimeter of his sadness like sharks. Later, as his separation becomes more devastating, Bob begins to sleep near his aquarium every night, as someone cold and lonely might a fireplace. It\u2019s all he has left. Except, of course, for his new neighbors, who begin making the trips to the tide pool with him in search of better fish.<\/p>\n

And so Tower exploits the pendulum of narrative\u2014back to the tide pool, forth to the house, back and forth, back and forth. It\u2019s structurally soothing in a bedtime-story sort of way, and it lends a gut-punch comedy to the imminent moments of pure despair.<\/p>\n

As for that despair, I won\u2019t spoil it, except to remind you that neighbors are vessels for the intrinsic supervillainy of the universe; whenever you give them an inch, they\u2019ll take a mile, and are programmed to seize it. Allowing one of them a drunken slumber on your floor may seem like the decent thing to do, but it\u2019s not, especially when said neighbor drops a venomous sea cucumber in your excruciatingly curated aquarium, imperiling all you\u2019ve left to love to noxious demise. So to speak.<\/p>\n

Read \u201cThe Brown Coast<\/a>,\u201d and\u00a0subscribe now<\/a>\u00a0for digital access to every short story, poem, portfolio, and essay from\u00a0<\/em>The Paris Review.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Daniel Johnson works at <\/em>The Paris Review.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Rereading Wells Tower\u2019s 2002 story from our archive.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1030,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1188],"tags":[370,14982,25912,26616,27978,71,3364,1886,12777,14456,7845,27977,27976,146],"class_list":["post-109173","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-from-the-archive","tag-back-issues","tag-beaches","tag-digital-archive","tag-digital-subscription","tag-everything-ravaged-everything-burned","tag-fiction","tag-fish","tag-florida","tag-neighbors","tag-rereading","tag-short-stories","tag-spring-2002","tag-the-brown-coast","tag-wells-tower"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nOn Wells Tower\u2019s Story \u201cThe Brown Coast\u201d<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Every week, we feature a story from our archive, now available online in full to subscribers. 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