A small group of New Yorkers huddle, bracing themselves against the wet cold of an off-season Montauk beach. They wait to scatter the ashes of a young successful photographer.

Ben Johnson had not always been handsome, sophisticated or even a photographer…then overnight, he was double-booked when other photographers couldn’t get a job, shot national magazine covers and international ads, built a huge loft downtown and bought a house overlooking Gardiner’s Bay in Montauk. How had he come out of nowhere and gotten to the top so quickly? Some standing on the beach remembered his success as coming off their backs, a few thought his success had been financed by his wealthy ex-wife, some thought that he had worked hard and sacrificed for his success, none doubted his talent. Many standing on the beach hated him, others loved him, the seven-foot giant standing off to the side of the group choking back tears had stalked him.

No one on the beach seems to know where Ben Johnson had died or why. Many speculate that it was suicide or murder, all would agree certainly nothing that could be regarded as “natural causes” or a mere traffic accident. Some waited to say “Goodbye,” others, “Good Riddance.”

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