by Jack Cady
The kid bailed. He slipped on the rock shingle as he jumped. The open door of the Ranchero clipped him. He fell. Scrambled toward the road. Slipped again. Scrambled to the road and turned, blinded by headlights of his own rig. Then the headlights pointed to the sky as the rear end sank into the Canal. Bubbles rose. Electronic music thumped, thumped, stilled. For a moment headlights shone underwater, then shorted out and only moon and kid stood witness to the demise of a classic.
Because no guy, even guys who just escaped drowning, and probably worse, are gonna lose a ’57 Ranchero without a lot of mourning. The damn things only get ten miles to a gallon when heading downhill with a tail wind, but when guys have got the best they gotta expect it’s gonna cost.
The kid, scared silly, watched the little truck disappear. He watched the moon take over, the silver path indifferent, like nothing cosmic or tragic had been goin’ on. Then the kid scrambled to the far side of the road, crossed the ditch, and actually hugged a tree while kneeling. He told himself if the Canal meant to take him, it had to get him tree-’n-all.
The path of moonlight showed a little ruffle near the shore, something stirring just beneath water, something sort of deadfish pale, white, bloodless, cold as a corpse; a shimmer of white beneath the silver path of moon, a stir of water. The form slowly broke the surface. It shimmered, coalesced into a hulking, almost human shape, and struggled toward land. A wave of cold, and a stink of decay drifted across the road. The thing was more than apparition, but less than solid, and it made no sound although it had a sort-of face, a sort-of mouth. It stood, not even half-formed, grasping toward land; and then slowly sank backward into dark water.
The kid held to the tree and found he could not think. He trembled with cold. He retched from the stench. His arms shook with cold, like changing a tire in winter. The stench passed but the cold did not, and he felt it reaching toward him. He feared he could no longer hold onto the tree. He watched water close over the what-ever-it-was. The kid was barely conscious that a hump moved just beneath the surface of the Canal, moved pretty quick toward the drowned truck, seemed to pause, then slowly moved away. The hump headed toward the darkest and deepest trench of the Hood Canal.
The kid found himself a long, long way from home, without wheels, and not a chance of anything coming by ‘til morning. He shivered. He still held onto the tree. Nothing pulled at him. He took a step onto the road, took another. He began walking slowly along the berm, ready to jump for another tree in case the Canal tried to take him. As confidence increased he speeded up. He warmed as he got further from the dunk site. The kid figured to sleep under the porch of Beer and Bait, then catch a ride going south. He kept shivering, but not with cold. Considering everything that had been goin’ on, shivering was no more than a guy would have to expect.
Short Bulletins as Bertha Hustles
Three weeks, only three little weeks. Three weeks that brought to his boat one daddy-rabbit halibut of 230 pounds, one junior-achievement halibut of seventy pounds, plus the usual suspects; black cod, snapper, and redfish. Three weeks of gulls circling in mist, squawking and ready to slurp cleaned fish guts. Three weeks of foghorns from enormous ships plying main trade routes, of bell buoys a-clank, of trips to the fish factory through wind and mist; while back on shore everything went fish-belly-up.
It was well into September by the time the fisherman returned to the Canal where enough bull waited to make a man want to stay offshore a year. As the fisherman cleaned the boat, other fishermen gossiped, loafed, advised. By the time he secured the boat, stopped by home for shower, shave, and shore-legs, the fisherman knew it would be smart to stay away from Beer and Bait. That knowledge, naturally, compelled him toward Beer and Bait with all despatch. He pulled into the parking lot suspecting that, although he’d been offshore three weeks, he needed an iron-clad alibi.
Because bull said Chantrell was history, Petey was about to get his mast restepped, Sugar Bear and Annie had returned and were hiding out, the tow truck kid caused seventeen tons of perdition during a pool joust at the housing project, and the kid, during off-hours, pushed a new Dodge pickup, V10, totally loaded, a foreman’s truck; while the state cop circled Beer and Bait like a vulture, and Bertha was wearing her hair “done up.”
There’s always a slight germ of truth in every Canal story. Thus, the fisherman felt drawn to Beer and Bait because, being thoughtful, this particular fisherman loved truth.
In mid-afternoon the parking lot held a 163 Jimmy pickup, a fried-out Rambler station wagon, a red tow truck, a 600 Ford with cattle racks, and a gleamy new Cadillac that, as anyone with brains could see, had not the least business on the premises. The fisherman sighed, pretended he was brave, and reminded himself that the smartest guys are the ones who keep their traps shut.
When he stepped inside Beer and Bait he saw that Bertha looked lonesome but didn’t know it. Bertha’s mouth seemed a little tight, her formality stiffer than necessary, and yes, her hair was done up. When she mopped with a bar rag her hands did not carry any snap.
Along the bar ranged a select group of Canal citizens, plus a couple outsiders; a rich guy playing pool, and a sorta scruffy organic lady; the kind who is always just “passing through,” who wears granny skirts, shoots up yogurt, drops granola, snorts carrot juice, and drives ragged-out Ramblers. She sat next to the gyppo electrician who owned the Jimmy, and on her other side sat a pig farmer, the only soul in the joint with a light outlook. The tow truck kid stood at a pool table where he hustled the rich guy, and, while no one at the bar paid attention to the game, Bertha made notes. It was clear when the kid finished hustling he would answer to Bertha. Big time.
The fisherman took the stool nearest the door. It had the advantage of a view plus rapid egress.
“Long time,” Bertha said, and put a beer before him. “Double halibut,” the fisherman said.
“That long?” Bertha tried to sound interested, but her eyes kept shifting to the pool game.
“And Jennifer,” the pig farmer said to the organic lady, “sadly enough, has turned into a tramp.” He rolled his eyes and sighed. This pig farmer was lanky, darker than Petey but not quite Mexican, and he wore a red flannel shirt and a ball cap reading “Pedigreed Porkers.” He allowed himself a gentle smile as he hustled the organic lady.
“Jennifer is a pig,” the electrician explained.
“It’s what she’s become.” The farmer chuckled.
The organic lady sipped at a chablis while weighing choices. She could drive on down the road and spend the night in the Rambler. On the other hand, the pig farmer had a sense of humor, and he certainly smelled organic.
“I heard something about Chantrell,” the fisherman murmured to Bertha.
Bertha dabbed with a bar rag, cast a look of Scandinavian scorn at the organic lady, leaned across the bar. “He emigrated. Ask Sugar Bear. Ask Annie.” Bertha’s tone told the fisherman that no public discussion would happen. She looked toward the pool game where the tow truck kid pulled a routine combo on the nine ball. “You’ve missed quite a bit,” she told the fisherman, her voice grim.
“It’s a little known fact,” the pig farmer told the organic lady, “that the I.Q. of your average pig exceeds that of your average . . .” He looked at Bertha, grinned, shrugged, and did not say “Cop,” and didn’t have to. “Electrician,’’ the pig farmer said.
“And some sod-busters are dumb enough to name their pigs.” The electrician sipped at his suds. The men were obviously buddies, and that made the organic lady possessive. She touched the pig farmer’s hand.
“Pool tournament?” It was hard for the fisherman to catch up on bull because there was lots of it. Where did a guy start?
“We got a problem,” Bertha admitted, and she did not lower her voice. “We got a kid getting way too big for his britches.”
“And with a new truck?”
“Half paid for,” the kid said. He stood at the pool table trying to look sharkish, but for some reason the fisherman couldn’t fat
hom, the kid looked scared. The kid turned back to the table. The rich guy, who was plump, shanked a shot. “What?” he said to the kid.
“Like this,” the kid said, and the fisherman saw the kid was not hustling. The kid gave lessons.
“He got a new truck because of bad driving,” Bertha said about the kid, “because he dunked his other truck.”
The fisherman watched the kid stiffen. The kid shanked a shot. He looked ready to say something sharp, looked afraid, then turned and stomped toward the can.
“It was halfway amusing,” the pig farmer said to the fisherman. “The kid got to haul his junk Ranchero to impound, got to haul his own truck. Wet as wet could be.”
“Without a scratch on it,” the electrician mused. “Totally different from all them others. All them others were scratched and twisted.”
The rich guy stood listening. His golf shirt spread across his tummy like a cuddly layer of wealth. The organic lady didn’t understand the discussion and seemed resentful. The pig farmer studied the situation and tried to figure whether he wanted to tangle with the organic lady, or maybe not. The electrician stood ready to take over in case the pig farmer decided against.
“That’s too different,” the fisherman murmured. “No scratches. It’s scary when something ought to happen, and doesn’t.”
“What will certainly happen,” the rich guy said in a quiet voice, “is another pool tournament.” The rich guy sounded sincere, and that was also scary.
“It’s a game.” Bertha touched the bar with her fingertips, maybe reminding herself that she controlled the joint. “Being good at pool is like being good at nothing special. What’s wrong with guys?” Her voice held small, nearly concealed pain. There was no bull, and there was definite sorrow.
The fisherman started to explain about guys, then shut up. Matters do not generally get intimate at Beer and Bait, except physically. True, an occasional drunk may talk valentine talk, or something equally sloppy, but sincerity? On the Canal? At Beer and Bait?
The rich guy leaned on his pool cue. He stared across the tip, then glanced around the joint like he owned it. “It is only a game,” he admitted quietly. “Trouble is, games ask to be won.” The rich guy didn’t explain that he was used to winning. A new Cadillac sat in the parking lot.
Bertha leaned against the backbar. She studied the rich guy the way the rich guy maybe studied a business proposition. It was clear Bertha was ready to deal, though no one could figure why, or what.
“Your aim’s okay,” she told the rich guy, “and your feel for the table ain’t bad, but your little finger is coming up on the cue when you stroke. You got little-finger problems.”
“Happens to me all the time,” the electrician murmured. He turned his right hand palm upward, squinched his eyes, and gave a deep sigh.
“One of my main sorrows.” The pig farmer chuckled.
“Tape your little finger to the next finger and practice that-away,” the fisherman told the rich guy. “You’re losing about one degree on every shot.”
The rich guy actually looked at his little finger like he thought of amputation. “Are you folks serious.”
“Try it,” the electrician said. “Stroke normal and feel what your hand is doing.”
The rich guy stroked. “I see what you mean,” he said quietly.
He tried not to look like a man who has just struck gold. “You have a real nice place,” he said to Bertha, and it was clear he tried to pay for good advice. He turned as the kid came from the can. “Why didn’t you say something about this little-finger stuff?”
“Little-finger stuff?”
“I will be damn . . .” The rich guy leaned against the table, struck by a combination of disgust and admiration. “You’ve been setting me up for another hustle,” he said to the kid. “You should study law.” The rich guy unscrewed his cue. “Because we got a lawyer shortage. Meanwhile, you’re fired.” The rich guy packed up his cue as the kid stuttered.
“A very nice place,” the rich guy told Bertha as he left. “You are an exceptional businesswoman, and we must talk some business soon.” The rich guy sounded like a preacher giving a blessing.
“Little-finger stuff?” Then the kid realized everyone at the bar faced away from him, and four sets of shoulders shook as guys and Bertha tried to control laughter.
“That,” said the pig farmer, “was educational. I’m gonna teach that move to my stud boar.” He giggled, turned to look at the kid, and bust out laughing.
The fisherman, who had just witnessed a hustle delivered with total finesse, nearly choked on his beer.
“The rich bastard actually bought it. He felt his finger coming up even when it couldn’t.” The electrician looked at Bertha like he saw her for the first time. “I’m gonna camp here forever. This is a good, safe place to get bombed.”
Bertha, temporarily happy, looked toward the kid. “Next time you set up in the pool-teaching business, pick another bar. Or, help me pay my mortgage.” Bertha sounded serious. “You just made an enemy. That guy knows you were setting him up.”
“While chargin’ for the lessons,” the kid said. “Gimmie a little credit here. That guy’s wife, the one who wears purple, set up that first tournament; and the guy still comes back for more. Gimmie a little credit.” Then confusion mixed with brashness, and through the mixture shone an edge of fear. “Little finger?”
“Truck payments,” the pig farmer mused. “And on a damn Dodge. And aught but b.s. for a backhaul.” Sympathy mixed with amusement as he watched the kid. He shook his head, turned to the organic lady, “. . . takes quite a while to grow up . . .” looked at the electrician, “and some never do . . .” and then to the kid, he said, “Thanks, I needed that.” He stood, patted the organic lady on the shoulder, tugged at the bill of his cap, smiled in a general way at everyone, and left.
“He’s flighty,” the electrician assured the organic lady who sat totally steamed. “Been that way since kindergarten. Dropped on his head as a baby.”
The organic lady smiled, turned to the electrician, pouted only a little, then smiled some more.
“And Annie and Sugar Bear are back?” The fisherman recalled that awful afternoon at China Bay, nearly a month ago, when Annie led a very moist Sugar Bear away; and when he, the fisherman, had probably had one or two jars of suds too many.
“At Sugar Bear’s place, but I doubt he’s open for business.” Bertha watched the kid and seemed real worried. She at least forgot the load she planned to dump. “They haven’t been in, Annie or Sugar Bear. You’re his best friend.”
“Phone?”
“I ought to go over there,” Bertha said apologetically. “I ought to take time off.” Then she brightened. “You really are his best friend.” She turned to the beer case. “Take a six-pack.”
The Adventures of Chantrell George
Consider the Salvation Army. Consider, especially, the concept of Grace. Think of hymns played on big city street corners; cornets and clarinets and snare drums nearer to God than we, playing beneath eyes of storm; no pay for players, a new pair of shoes, the love of fellow man behind the blat of spiritual messages.
Consider also the customers: the junkies, alkies, down-and-outers, the hookers, runaways, the insane and the sick, the confused; the tired people beat-to-hell because of excess by themselves or by a system that thrives not on Grace.
Because there is a difference between charity and Grace (Grace is not deductible). Grace flies free and without deserving as it rises from Sally’s Army and other armies of the street that snag the occasional bum, the one, who, with a stirring of soul, would choose (if he could) not to be a bum . . . For it is true that a bum who holds glimmers of hope, and ability to offer a little trust, can be floored when encountering Grace.
Consider also, that Chantrell George, being a country boy, knows nothing of Sally’s Army, and certainly nothing of Grace. As he wanders, confused, past drug deals on Second Ave. in Seattle, past drunks and hookers, his shoulders slump an
d his belly is so empty he’s sure his throat has been cut. His straggledy hair hangs limp, and his eyes see only the pavement in front of his feet. He steps timidly as he approaches the sound of a cornet; “Amazing Grace,” and, as he steps toward this new experience we may back away from consideration of this whole deal—while experiencing a glimmer of hope.
Recent Pooler History
Sugar Bear’s gingerbread house and voluminous workshop nestle among firs and cedars. A cliff stands behind the house, and above that, land rises in a sharp slope to forested mountainside. Swallows nest in the cliff, hawks float overhead, owls pounce during owl light, a few gold-bricking sparrows hang out at a bird feeder, and a house wren blesses the place with the flash of red on her tummy.
Inside the house, after the fisherman knocked and entered, matters looked pretty thin. The fisherman set the six-pack on the kitchen table, popped beers, and passed them. “You’ll forgive it,” he said to Sugar Bear, “I’ve seen days when you looked better.”
“Some kind of crap is happening,” Sugar Bear said. “We can’t figure it.” Sugar Bear looked furry as ever, but there were gray streaks in his beard and wrinkles around his eyes. “. . . like trying to punch a hole in fog.”
“Slowly, slowly.” The fisherman looked around the place, saw it immaculate in a way too pure for a Sugar-Bear-happy-go-sloppy life, and figured Annie was to blame. Next there would be chintz curtains and salt shakers shaped like little duckies . . . “You’ve brightened the place,” he said to Annie.