Fiction

Bruce Buschel is a writer, producer, director, and restaurateur who lives in Bridgehampton.

Almost 30 years have passed since I discovered what I romantically thought of as my “little path to the sea.” I can still remember clearly and easily the landscape that surrounded it.

The last time I ever saw Uncle Abbie he was running through the pristine potato fields beyond our house in Sagaponack cradling america in his arms.

It happens every year. The holidays roll in and they all start crying in their cups about the one that got away or the years that got away or the bygones that won’t stay gone.

I met Doc when we first worked at a resort hotel one long-ago summer. We called him Doc because he was intent on going to medical school. But Doc was no rich kid. He was an orphan, raised by poor immigrant grandparents. Doc was earning enough money to pay his med school tuition by sleeping with hotel guests, widows and wealthy divorcees. Just...

This is the way of the wonder ones into the world,   like the rounds of round stones mouthed by the sea,   molded by passage, curled in the blue-white foam at the edge of their coming through.

My father was a great storyteller, and when my two brothers and I were growing up, he would spin out one tale after another. As a little kid, my favorite was “Skinny Melinny, the Fish Who Lived Under the Sea.”

In Vietnam, there is a green bamboo viper. Marines call it “One-Step.” It bites. You take one step. You’re dead.

Every summer from the time I was 6, I was able to escape the horror of life with my mother and stepfather in Tennessee and visit my dad and Gail, his new girlfriend. He had an apartment in Gramercy Park in the city — New York — and a house in Montauk, at the very tip of Long Island. There was a great lighthouse there, built in the late 1700s.