by Tyler Keevil
‘Let’s see what we got,’ he says.
Together, the two of us take hold of the loop and really haul on it, throwing all our weight against it, leaning way back on our heels. The cable slithers out a little more, but it looks as if the length we’ve freed is just the beginning. There’s more to come – except it’s not coming. We reef and yank for a good five minutes, like two guys playing tug-of-war with themselves. By the end our hands are raw and we’re both panting, sweating, fuming.
‘This sucker’s huge,’ Wilbur says.
‘It’s the mother load, all right.’
‘Worth all the ingots and bolts combined.’ He pauses, wiping his brow. ‘It’s got to be the real culprit, here. If we get it out, we’re done. The rest of this crap can probably stay.’
‘Shit,’ I say. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’
He grabs at the cable again and gives it a quick jerk, like he’s hoping to catch it off-guard, take it by surprise. But it doesn’t budge. For awhile we pace around, eyeing it up.
‘We could dig it out,’ Wilbur says, ‘with shovels.’
We get the shovels from the barge – the same shovels we use to clear ice from the ice bins at the end of the season. On the way back, we pass Chinese Henry working in front of his shack. Half a dozen crab traps are strewn around him, in need of mending. He’s scrawny as a scarecrow, draped in baggy blue coveralls, and to shade his face from the sun he wears a straw cowboy hat, tatty and riddled with holes, as if rats have been chewing at it.
‘Hot enough for you?’ Wilbur calls to him.
Henry just smiles and nods, like always. I can’t tell if he gets the joke.
Back in the pit, before we take on the cable, we stand over it and eye it up. I like the feel of the shovel in my hand, the weight of it. Wilbur uses his to prod at the cable – as if he expects it to react in some way.
‘We’ll get her out of there,’ he says. ‘No problem.’
Together we set to work, digging a trench on either side of the cable. We take turns ramming our shovels into the gravel. Each impact jars my wrist, rattles in my skull. We strike at the ground again and again – setting off sparks whenever our shovel blades hit a larger stone. Every so often one of us puts down our shovel to tug on the cable, and each time a bit more slides free. For a while it feels as if we’re making progress – real progress – until my shovel comes down with a hard ‘thock’ that I feel right through to my jaw.
‘Damn,’ I say, dropping it and shaking out my hand.
We poke around a bit. Testing. Under the ground there’s something big and solid. Wilbur shears more dirt away with his shovel, and I get down to dig with my hands. It takes us a few minutes of delicate work to reveal the stump. It’s about five feet across, lying on its side, with a snarl of roots sprouting out one end. The remains of an old oak or sycamore tree, maybe. Leftover from when they cleared the shoreline. The cable’s all wrapped and tangled around it – almost as if somebody was trying to use it to drag the stump loose, and gave up.
‘Well,’ Wilbur says. ‘Now we’re really screwed.’
We squat down in the sand, panting. I’ve taken off my shirt and can feel the sun searing my back, my neck, my scalp. A fly settles on my forearm, drawn by the sweat, and I swat it away. We stare at the stump. It’s huge and greyish-white and looks like a fossil that we’ve partially unearthed. Maybe the bone of a dinosaur that died a million years ago.
‘Shovels aren’t gonna do it.’
Wilbur snorts. ‘That’s the truth.’
‘What about the forklift?’ I say. Roger keeps a forklift in the company shed, next to Chinese Henry’s shack. ‘We could use it to haul this sucker out.’
We look at each other, and Wilbur punches me in the shoulder.
‘Damn straight. Use it like a tractor. Think Roger will let us?’
‘Probably. If I explain it to him.’
I go looking for Roger alone, since he’s not so keen on Wilbur. I check the ice bin first, but Roger’s finished his work in there. So I clamber up to the galley to ask Doreen. She tells me he’s down in the aft hold, adjusting the pump that was acting up all through herring season. Back there the hatch is open, and the air rising out stinks of stale oil. I squat down above it and peer in. I can see Roger lying on his side. In the dark he’s just a shadow, silhouetted by a work lamp. Instead of calling down to him, I crouch and watch him work. He’s struggling with something – turning a valve with a pipe wrench, by the looks of it – and grunting every so often. He’s having a time of it, and for a second, seeing that, I’m convinced that I’ll stay. Stick it out on the barge, to help Roger. At least until he retires. Even if we end up like Rob and Wilbur, snarling and spitting at one another. A pair of polecats trapped in the same cage.
‘You need a hand, Roger?’ I say, raising my voice.
‘I got it, greenhorn,’ he yells, and rolls over. A shaft of light from the open hatch catches his face, which is smudged with grime. He squints up at me. ‘How you getting on?’
‘We’re a bit stuck out here, Roger.’
He stops what he’s doing and lies there listening as I explain the situation to him. He gives me permission to use the forklift, but I can’t tell if he thinks it’s a good idea. He’s been hard to read, lately – ever since I finally mentioned that I might not be back next season.
‘Just stay out of the bite,’ he tells me.
Roger always worries about the bite – the area where a snapped cable is most likely to recoil. He lost a crewmember one year, in the days when he worked on the seine boats. A tie line broke in a storm, and whipped right back at the guy standing beside Roger. Broke his neck. Nearly tore his head off. Ever since then Roger’s had this paranoia of the bite – a paranoia he’s passed on to me.
When I trudge back up the gangplank, Wilbur’s waiting for me at the edge of the parking lot. ‘And?’ he asks.
‘We got it.’
He whoops and punches the air. Neither of us has a forklift license, but we’ve both driven it before. During pre-season, we use it to lift palettes of supplies off the delivery trucks. Together, we head over to the shed and throw open the doors. The forklift is waiting in the middle of the floor. The grill is black with oil, and in places the yellow paint is peeling and flaking away like sunburnt skin. I hop up into the driver’s cage and start the engine. It coughs diesel fumes and the whole frame starts shuddering, raring to go. As I back her out, Henry stands up to watch. I salute him, pivot the forklift around, then rumble past his crab traps. Beneath the wheels, bits of gravel pop and crackle and spit out backwards. I ease the forklift into place at the edge of the parking lot, as close to the sand pit as I can get.
Wilbur meets me there with a chain and some tie lines – sturdy lengths of three-core nylon rope. I hop down, putting the brake on and leaving the forklift running, and we discuss our various options. We could use the tie lines as tow ropes, but the stump is stuck so fast the lines would probably snap before it came free. It makes more sense to use the chain. The only problem is attaching it to the cable. We decide to use the tie lines as links – lashing one end of the chain to the loop in the cable, and the other end to the back of the forklift. There’s no hitch, since forklifts aren’t supposed to be used for towing. So instead we tie the rope to the bars of the carriage guard, weaving it between them five or six times for added strength.
‘She looks solid,’ I say, reefing on the chain.
Wilbur’s already climbing into the driver’s seat. I stand to one side, making sure I’m out of the bite. He pulls on a lever to lower the forks. Then he puts her in gear. The forklift inches ahead until the slack goes out of the chain and the cable stretches taut, quivering like an elastic. Wilbur half-turns around in his seat and leans out the window to get a better view.
‘Keep your head inside,’ I shout. ‘You’re right in the bite.’
He looks at me bl
ankly.
‘If something snaps, the chain is going to whip back at the forklift.’
He holds up a hand and withdraws, turtle-like. I don’t see him give it more gas, but the forklift lurches forward, straining. I watch the cable. A section slips free, then another. Each time, the forklift gains a bit more ground: lurching and stopping, lurching and stopping. Then it just stops. I can see the whole line – rope and chain and cable – quivering with the reverberations of the engine. But that stump is holding fast. Wilbur gives her a bit more juice, and the forklift wheels start to spin – slipping on the dirt and gravel in the parking lot.
‘Hold up, Wilbur,’ I call to him, raising a hand. ‘It’s not working.’
He lets the engine idle for a second, and when he does the cable actually retracts from the tension, drawing the forklift backwards a foot. I stand with my hands on my hips, looking at the stump, the cable, the chain, the forklift. I’ve still got my shirt off and I can feel the slap of the sun on my shoulders. In my work boots my socks are squishy with sweat. Henry has come to this side of his boathouse to watch us. There’s a wooden railing up there and he’s leaning on it, his face shadowed by his big straw hat. I can tell he’s still smiling, though.
‘What if I hit it harder?’ Wilbur says.
‘Like with a burst of gas?’
‘Uh-huh – just give her.’
‘I don’t know, man. Seems sketchy.’
‘It’s all good. Watch.’
He stands up and guns the engine. The forklift pitches forward, like a horse throwing itself into the harness. The line goes taut and the stump seems to tremble.
‘I think that did something,’ I yell at him.
He eases up on the throttle, letting the line slacken, and then hits it again, and again – yanking on the cable, jarring the stump. It’s working, too. The stump shifts and shivers in the dirt and looks ready to rear up, roaring, like a prehistoric beast. Seeing that, Wilbur starts hitting the gas even harder, and each time the forklift lunges ahead I swear I can feel the force of the impact trembling through the ground. I can see it, too. Not just in the stump, but in the dirt, the gravel, the pilings. The whole area is quivering with aftershocks.
‘Hold up there, Wilbur,’ I call.
He pretends not to hear. He’s working the forklift like a rocking horse, forward and back, stuck in a rhythmic trance. His glasses are all fogged up, so I can’t even see his eyes. I wave my arms above my head, trying to get his attention. On the other side, Henry is doing the same thing and shouting at him in Mandarin. I think I know what he’s trying to tell us.
‘It’s stuck in the pilings, Wilbur!’ I shout. ‘The boathouse pilings!’
He seems to hear, but he still doesn’t look at me, still doesn’t stop.
‘Fuck it,’ he yells. ‘Something’s gotta give!’
And he hits it one more time, full throttle. The engine roars as the forklift hurdles forward, belching black smoke. The cable line goes taut and the stump actually moves and for a split second I think he’s done it – he’s torn that sucker free. Then I hear the distinctive crack of splitting wood, and this deafening moan, like the wail of a dying elephant. I don’t see the recoil of the chain as one of the tie lines breaks – it’s too fast – but I see the rear piling on the boathouse topple over gently, slumping into the mud along the shore. The floor it was supporting comes down next, bringing the back wall with it. That whole section tears away with surprising neatness, as if the shack has been cut in half by a giant axe. The wall and floor collapse into our gravel pit, splintering and breaking apart. The impact kicks up a mushroom cloud of dust.
Then everything goes quiet.
The forklift is lying on its side. The sudden release of tension, combined with the recoil of the chain, must have knocked it over. I walk up to the cab. I have this vision in my head – this vision of opening the door and finding Wil bur lying there, headless, a victim of the bite. Blood still spurting from his stump neck. And when I peer inside, I do see blood – but only on his forehead. Other than that he’s fine, curled up in the overturned cab, looking as stunned as me. The door won’t open so I help him out through the window.
‘Oh, shit,’ he whispers, when he sees what we’ve done. ‘Oh, shit.’
Neither of us says anything else. We trudge back to the gravel pit, moving like the survivors of a plane crash, to examine the wreckage left behind. The floor and wall of the boathouse has formed a perfect pyramid – almost temple-like – over our stump, which looks as stuck as ever. We squat down outside it, huddled together like penitents. I hear a whoop from above us. Henry is up there, standing at the hole we’ve torn in his boathouse. Behind him are crab traps and lobster pots, stacked as neat as Lego blocks, and a light bulb dangles from the ceiling on bare wires, knocked loose in the accident. He doesn’t look as pissed as I expect. He’s laughing, actually – laughing so hard he can barely breathe. Every so often he stops and points at us and shouts something in Mandarin, which makes him roar even louder.
I don’t understand any of it.
There’s a War Coming
It was past midnight on a Friday and there were only six customers left in the restaurant: an elderly English couple, three Korean businessmen, and the American actor who had been causing problems all night. He had broken a champagne flute and sent back his bison steak and gotten in an argument with his female companion. After an extended bout of yelling and swearing, she’d dumped a glass of Perrier over his head and walked out; now he was sitting alone on the patio, smoking a cigar. He was being observed from inside by Seb and Hamed. They were both standing at the rear busser station, leaning against the bar as they watched the actor through one of the windows that looked out on the patio, and the harbour beyond.
‘He’s our real worry,’ Hamed said. ‘He’ll be here all night.’
‘He better not be.’
‘Two o’clock, easy.’
‘I’m beat, man.’
It had been a manic night; the restaurant had been packed and they’d turned over three hundred tables. Now everything had settled into that certain stillness that came at the end of a shift: the kitchen cool and cleanly metallic, the tables stripped and reset in preparation for the morning. All the servers had been sent home, and all the kitchen staff, too. Only he and Hamed were left, and their manager, César, who was in the back counting the cash.
‘We should have kicked him out,’ Hamed said.
‘César knows where his bread’s buttered.’
A few of the other customers had complained about the actor’s antics. One couple had even left without finishing their meal.
‘Those people were regulars. And good tippers.’
‘They don’t rack up six hundred dollar tabs, though.’
‘True that.’ Hamed had a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. He was gnawing on one end, grinding it between his molars. ‘I bet you he pays in cash. Yankee dollars.’
‘He was bragging about staying in the penthouse at the Metropolitan.’
‘He must have dropped a few bills on that prostie, too.’
It took Seb a moment to realize Hamed was talking about the actor’s date. She had been wearing a strapless blue dress, and she’d been very pleasant to him when he’d brought the bread and water and tabernad to their table. She had told him that it all looked delightful.
Seb said, ‘She was pretty nice.’
‘Well, she sure wasn’t his wife.’
‘Didn’t something happen with his wife?’
‘She reported him for beating her up.’
‘That’s it.’
‘But they dropped the charges.’
‘Because he’s famous, probably.’
‘Or he paid her off.’
They were talking without looking at each other; they were both still looking at the actor. His head and torso were framed perfectly by
the window, and it was as if they were watching him through a television screen.
‘Have you seen his new show?’ Seb asked.
‘I saw the first episode.’
‘What’s it like?’
‘The same as the other one.’ Hamed turned the toothpick over with his tongue. ‘He plays an old, washed-up cop.’
From behind them came the sound of the kitchen service door swinging open and shut on its springs and they both looked back. César had appeared. He was a small man – as short as Hamed, but not as muscular – and he had a goatee and a smoothly shaved scalp that shone like mahogany under the restaurant lights. He spotted them standing there and started towards them. They straightened up. Seb clipped his bowtie back on and Hamed took the toothpick out of his mouth.
‘Hands and feet,’ César said. ‘What have I told you about your hands and feet?’
Seb had begun wiping down the bar top. ‘To keep them moving.’
Hamed said, ‘We’ve done everything. We’re just waiting for people to clear out.’
César glanced around. Seb knew he was looking for something amiss, something to catch them out on, but there was nothing; all the tables were set, all the chairs in place. The bar had been bleached and wiped down, the wine glasses polished to the point of gleaming.
‘The customers aren’t paying to see you stand around. Go ask if they want anything.’
‘They don’t want anything.’
‘How do you know, Hamed? Are you telepathic, now?’
‘The oldies and the suits have already had their bills.’
César jerked his chin towards the actor. ‘What about Mr Hollywood?’
Seb said, ‘I’ll go see.’
He folded his napkin and adjusted his apron and went out to the patio. It was on a balcony that overlooked Coal Harbour. From that side you could see across to Stanley Park, and the marina, which was full of yachts, sailboats, and pleasure cruisers, all sitting still in their births. Some of the cabin lights were on, and the reflections wavered blurrily in the black water of the harbour. It was late August, tourist season, and the air was heavy with humidity and the rich stink of the sea. There was no sign yet that autumn was on its way.