Before the Storm is a fictional autobiographical short story inspired by the Jersey Shore of the late 1970s about youth, drifting, loneliness, and the quiet moments that shape a life before we recognize its meaning. Accompanying this piece are stark relief prints influenced by WPA-era printmaking and Käthe Kollwitz, the work blends memory, fiction, and shadow-mass imagery into a meditation on vulnerability, resilience, and transformation. At its heart, Before the Storm explores the threshold between innocence and experience — the moment just before everything changes.
Before the Storm
Harry Mayer
Jersey Shore. Summer of 1977.
A midsummer breeze kicks an empty paper cup down the boardwalk. Lightning flashes over the ocean—no thunder, just an occasional flicker. I pass the Midway Steakhouse where Jimbo, the fry cook, cleans the grill. Beads of sweat form on his forehead. Droplets sizzle when they hit the hot iron. He scours it like a deckhand scraping barnacles in a boatyard. The place smells of fried peppers, onions, and rancid grease. My stomach growls. I forgot to eat again.
Jimbo calls out, “You coming tonight?”
“Where?”
“Party at White Beach, across from Bum Rogers.”
“Cool. Who’s going to be there?”
“You know—just local kids. Joey ‘Long Board’ brought some Panama Red back from Florida. Hey, you looking for work? George quit last night. Tony needs a counter guy.”
“No. I’m not wasting my summer working. I’m just going to hang on the boards and surf.”
I keep walking, turning at Kohr’s Frozen Custard. The neon signs flicker out one by one as the stands close for the night. The prize wheel at Union Jacks has stopped clicking. The boardwalk settles into darkness. Only the streetlights remain. Moths, confused and restless, circle in their glow.
I sit on a bench at the end of the amusement pier, waiting for Sandy to finish her shift. An overweight mechanic in a dirty white T-shirt works on the Tilt-A-Whirl. His shirt rides up, exposing his lower back as he curses and crawls beneath the ride, pumping grease into fittings. Red hydraulic fluid leaks from the pistons, pooling into the wooden planks.
Is this the best job Sandy could get? A witch. A freakin’ funhouse witch. She knows what the boardwalk’s like after closing—drunks, frat boys with beer muscles, guys looking to score.
Sandy appears, carrying a canvas bag. As she passes through the chain-link fence of Satan’s Funhouse, it snags on a plywood spider, jerking her back. She sees me. Pauses. Then gives a thin-lipped smile.
“Billy, what are you doing here?”
“I heard you got a new job. Thought I’d check on you. You know what it’s like around here at night.”
“I do. I can take care of myself.”
“I know. I was on the boards anyway.”
She sets her bag down, pulls off a black wig, and shakes out her blonde hair. She opens a jar of Noxzema and smears it across her face. The green grease paint mixes with her makeup, turning into a muddy brown paste. For a moment, it looks like her face is melting. She wipes it clean with a towel and checks herself in a small mirror.
“That’s better.”
She slips out of the long black dress, revealing a halter top and cut-offs, then stuffs everything into her bag.
“Since you’re here,” she says, “want to do something?”
“Jimbo said there’s a party at White Beach.”
“Do you think Robbie Dawson will be there?”
“I don’t know. Probably.”
“Okay… why not.”
We walk barefoot across the sand. It’s still warm, sticking between my toes. A fire burns near the dunes, flames licking upward. Embers drift like fireflies. A transistor radio blasts heavy metal. Figures move in silhouette—dancing, grinding, disappearing into each other. It feels tribal.
Jimbo waves us over. “Billy Bong! You made it!”
He takes a long drag from a joint, coughs hard, then passes it to me. “Toke up.”
The smoke burns my throat. I hold it in, waiting for it to take hold, then pass it to Sandy. We sit, drifting, watching.
A voice shouts from the dunes. “Everybody hands up! You’re all under arrest!”
A couple of kids panic and run. Then laughter.
“Damn it, Robbie,” someone yells. “You scared the hell out of us.”
Robbie laughs and grabs a beer.
Jimbo leans in, grinning. “Can you believe this guy? Middle of summer and he’s still wearing his football jersey. Probably sleeps in it.”
We laugh.
Robbie hears us. “What are you two stoners laughing at?”
“Nothing,” Jimbo says, laughing harder. “You want a hit?”
Sandy cuts in. “Don’t listen to them. I heard you’re going to Penn State.”
“Yeah. Coach Paterno wants us there early.”
He sits next to her.
“I heard you broke up with Katie,” she says.
“Yeah. We’re done.”
Jimbo hands me a bottle of Boone’s Farm. I drink. It goes down easy. I pass it to Sandy. She shakes her head. Robbie laughs when I offer it.
“Man, my little sister drinks that.”
Lightning flashes offshore. This time, thunder follows.
I turn to Sandy—but she’s gone. She’s dancing with Robbie, pressed against him, her head on his chest. His hands move down her back. He pulls her closer.
My jaw tightens. I take another drink.
Jimbo nudges me. “Take another hit. Don’t worry, man. She’ll be back.”
When I look again, she’s gone.
I lie back in the sand and close my eyes.
When I wake, Sandy is sitting alone, staring into the fire. She doesn’t look at me. Her body is rigid, her knees pulled together. It looks like she’s been crying.
I want to say something. Tell her it’s going to be okay.
I don’t.
Instead, I light another joint.
The offshore wind wakes me—a cold burst before the storm. The beach is empty. The fire is dying, coals hissing in the rain.
Thunder cracks. Lightning follows.
I walk home alone.
At sunrise, the sidewalks are empty.
I start walking. The streets are empty, rain flooding the pavement. With nowhere to go, I duck under an awning outside a Marine Corps recruiting office and fall asleep.
A voice wakes me.
I look up. A Marine stands over me, holding a box of donuts.
He says, "Are you here to see me? Ready to ship out?"
“What? No. I just needed a place to get out of the rain.”
He laughs. “I’m just messing with you. You want a cup of coffee?”
I hesitate.
“Yeah… I guess so.”
“Come on in. I’m making a fresh pot.”
Disclaimer: This work is autobiographical fiction inspired by real events and experiences. Certain characters, names, locations, and identifying details have been changed, combined, or fictionalized for narrative purposes and to protect the privacy of individuals.
