Clyde

He looks out from a ridge of rock to the water, his back inland.  The water boils and bruises and rides the wind for the short trip to the coast, flattening the grass it lands on.  Statuettes of water are etched on his skin like angels on a pin.  The way he rocks when buffeted shows him he is empty.

He came all the way to the coast from the Dust bowl.  There is one history for everyone there.  As soon as they stand upright, they are filled with it.  It silts from the skin and mixes with the ground, rising in little tempests where they walk.

He has to lean in.  Needles of seawater shift irritably on his face as if camels are passing through them.  The wind hits his fedora hard and pulls at his vest and as he turns to step onto the running board it crashes through him like a 38.