TWO MONTHS
Two months. Two friggin months on
the beach because some piss-ant cook got drunk on vanilla extract and decided
to get froggy. Shaking his head Tom
Miller pulled his collar up tight and stared out over the breakwater as the
freighter cleared the sea buoy. What the hell was he going to do for two
months? Especially in this god forsaken hell hole.
Spreading his feet and leaning into
the stiff wind he shoved his hand into the pockets of his black pea coat and
hunched his shoulders. A small orange boat pulled up next to the ship to take
off the pilot. Bobbing and weaving as it tried to hold position. A short bald
man gingerly made his way down, hesitated, then jumped to the smaller boat. The
freighter’s crew pulled the Jacobs ladder back onboard then scurried inside. Slowly,
the behemoth turned into the long Pacific rollers as white mist shot up from
the bow. That was it then. The last contact. She now belonged to the big blue.
Sighing to himself he tried to
suppress a deep shudder. Everyone and everything he knew was literally sailing
out of his life. Leaving him here like a discarded piece of jetsam.
So what now? Where was he supposed to go, what
was he supposed to do. It wasn’t like he had a home to go to. He’d been on the
move for too long to ever put down enough roots to call any place home. In the
past, his down time had been planned. He’d hole up with some buddy and twiddle
his thumbs until his next berth. This was different, Money was tight, money was
always tight, but he could squeak by for a couple months if he was careful. But
there was no telling how long it would take to get another ship after his
suspension was over. All become some low life cook decided to come after him
with a carving knife the size of Star Wars light saber.
Throwing his green sea bag over his
shoulder he turned and began the long walk back down the pier. He ignored the
cawing seagulls and distant whistle from the lumber mill. “Well Tommy my boy,”
he muttered to himself “Another day, another adventure.”
He had to suppress a shiver as he
nodded a greeting to the gray haired security guard at the front gate. God,
there was a job for you. All day in a six by six cube, checking people and
goods in and out of the loading yard. Stuck here while manufactured parts from
Ohio got to travel the world. It’d be
enough to make a man slit his own throat with a dull knife.
Stepping out to the main road he
turned his head to look both ways. Left or right? Port or starboard? Which way?
Lives could turn on this simple decision. His life in particular. He was really
torn. He had no idea which way would be best. The town looked pretty much the
same both ways. Gray warehouses, lumber yards and abandoned lots. He’d never
pulled liberty here so he didn’t know where anything was located. The only
thing he knew for sure was that the Union hall was across town for unknown
reason so that was out for today.
His legs refused to move, refused
to commit. Surely people looking would have thought of him as a lost soul.
Staring first one way then the other.
“What is it you want Tom,” he asked himself.
“Other than what every sailor wants, booze, broads, and a bed. Hopefully in
that order.” He said as he tried to shake off that lonely feeling threatening
to climb up his spine. He didn’t feel the loneliness when he was at sea. He
could push it back. Bury it in work. But here, on shore, the bitch threatened
to take over.
As he pondered his future travels a sea gull
landed to his right. There was nothing special about the bird. A normal,
everyday, white sea gull. It wasn’t a messenger from the gods or anything special. Just
a flying rat.
The bird tilted its head then
pecked at a McDonald’s wrapper. Because Tom was generally pissed off to the
ninth degree and finally here was something to attack he took a step towards
the bird and brought his boot back for an epic kick. The kind that would have
made an NFL kicker proud. But sea gulls are not dumb. They have been around
enough pissed off sailors to know to keep their distance. And long before Tom
could launch his epic kick, the bird jumped into the air and flew away.
Tom chuckled and sighed to himself,
“Typical.”
Because he was already turned that
way, because it was easier to continue than to make a decision, or just
because. He kept on walking, down the road to the right. Not because some
higher power drove him. Not because it was his destiny, but because a bird
landed to his right vice his left. Such are the little things that screw with
our lives.
.o0o.
Gracey Mars was slammed and it
wasn’t even happy hour. Carla had called in sick again so she was both tending
bar and waiting tables. Oh the glamor of a dock side bar. The Green Shamrock
served a mixed clientele, both fishermen and dock workers, almost all men. Guys
determined to forget about how much their lives sucked. Men trying to eke out a
few more rounds until their next paycheck mixing with guys loaded to the gills
with spending money after a profitable fishing trip. It created an interesting
environment to say the least. A woman
with any sense wouldn’t be caught dead in a dive like this.
She wiped the bar down for the
tenth time and cursed under her breath as Johnny Simpson made his way to the
Juke Box. If he played that damn Pena Colada song one more time she was going
to scream. Just think, if you had stuck with it you’d be graduating from
college this summer. Of course you’d have been a hundred grand in debt, but you
sure as shit wouldn’t be here. Twenty three years old and she had made it
exactly five point six miles from her child hood home. She wondered for the
thousandth time if she would ever get away. Ever see more of the world than
this barnacle on gods butt.
“When you going to marry me,
Gracey?” Mike Jensen slurred over the top of his drink. Gracey laughed. Mike
was older than Noah, with straggly gray hair and missing front teeth. He had
lost his dentures a couple of months ago but couldn’t afford new ones. He could
afford to come in here every day though.
“Mike, I’ve told you a dozen times.
I’ll marry you the day you get sober.” Gracey said with her patented female
bartender smile.
“Ah hell Gracey, for you I just
might do it.”
Everyone laughed and then returned
to concentrating on their drinks. Such is the nature of a dockside bar in the
early afternoon.
