by Jack Cady
And, if one had been able to ride that wind, to steer it here and there, the wind would serve as a magic carpet sailing above joints where beer trucks and soft drink trucks offloaded merchandise.
And, if one rode that magic carpet, and was thoughtful, he would just naturally note down where everybody was and what they did. Because, what with magic and wind and creatures in the Canal, plus bad stuff happening; and with some kinda hustle forming and bound to be stinky, it just made good sense if a thoughtful guy had the whole situation in view.
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In a snazzy neighborhood in Olympia, a ‘67 Chevrolet that looked like a rolling wreck, and wasn’t, eased to the curb in front of a high-priced apartment house. As if cued from offstage, two of the fanciest hookers Olympia had to offer tripped modestly toward the Chev. The ladies were dressed to the nines, and had scarves to protect coiffured hair from wind; one head of auburn, one peachy-golden. The ladies viewed the rusty Chev, sniffed, remembered that this was a cash deal, and entered. They settled in for what was bound to be a tedious trip, what with the traffic.
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In a seedy Olympia neighborhood, in a flophouse, a missionary type rose praising a benevolent but just God, while anointing his own innards with a glass of purest water. He thanked the Lord that he could remain clean, one-day-at-a-time. He pulled a pocket mirror from his kit. With tiny sewing scissors he trimmed that part of his haircut he could see. His face was lined but hopeful. His chin was shaved. Anyone who had known him in the past would have been hard put to recognize Chantrell, now known as Brother George. He pulled on faded work pants, a thrift shop shirt, and primed himself for another day’s work among the down and out. The priming was done with a second glass of pure water.
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At China Bay the bartender had not yet arrived. The huge room stood empty, or rather, peopled with memories of pool and palaver, of politics and deals (a few legal), of heartbreak and hope, of seduction and harlotry, of mysticism and myth. A faint glow dwelt behind the bar, maybe a reflection from sunlit water. Maybe.
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In a low rent but respectable area of Olympia nestled a hospital where a one-armed man lay broken, semiconscious, sedated and tied to monitors. Sanitary fluorescence cloaked the intensive care ward where a nurse moved quietly between beds. Lights suffused the man’s face, lay like plastic sheen on wrappings that covered the site where once had been a shoulder. Light covered the man, but darkness pressed on his mind; darkness hovered, then increased, then dwelt.
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In early traffic a V10 Dodge purred like a dear-kitty, and the tow truck kid told himself he gotta hurry. Then he told himself not to get excited, ‘cause excited guys don’t win at pool, ‘cause excited guys are tense. He watched the back end of a sheriff’s car that only exceeded by maybe five mph. He watched as the car slowed and took position in a hidden spot beside the road. The kid told himself that there were more local cops around than he could ever, ever remember. When he was no more than two miles from Beer and Bait, traffic backed up. The kid cussed, fretted, told himself to keep steady even if he could not afford to be late.
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At the other end of the Canal, in the parking lot of Rough and Randy, a lone survivalist sat in a Land Rover as he tasted a hangover, most fearful. He waited for Al to open. The survivalist watched fancy cars heading south, and he noted one new Cadillac driven by a rotund little rich bastard. The rich guy was accompanied by a lady dressed in purple who resembled a beetle. The survivalist cussed any dumb sumbitch who would own a Cad, and hungered for that first beer of the day.
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At Sugar Bear’s fairy-tale house sunlight followed a woman, prematurely gray, as she moved from the house into the dimness of the forest. Annie moved awkwardly as the habits of youth tried to enforce themselves on a body that, if not elderly, was at least middle-aged.
The fisherman sat in Sugar Bear’s kitchen watching Annie depart, and thinking. He understood that she had to commune with spirits of grandmother or trees. Annie was boxed, but knowing Annie as he did, he knew she would fight back. He shuddered, but continued to take care of Annie in the only way he knew; by watching Sugar Bear who sat at the table slurping coffee.
“I gotta say,” Sugar Bear yelped most enthusiastic, “that all the candles and candy in the world don’t make up for lignite. Try it. You’ll see.” Sugar Bear leaned back, as if proud to have proved a point.
The fisherman watched his friend, sorrowed, and then had a loathsome thought. Annie was gonna need lots of help with this. This was not gonna go away. Annie would sooner or later get lonesome . . . the fisherman cussed himself beneath his breath, felt terrible ashamed, and figured he needed one full-time reality check. He told himself that when Annie returned, and assumin’ he was not too old and worn to walk, some kind of real reality would be holding forth at Beer and Bait. He listened as Sugar Bear, who had never before owned a pet, made up a list of names for an imaginary walrus.
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A dog can only put up with so much, even a dog who is accustomed to crowds. The glorious day saw Jubal Jim Johnson a-trot, and in one of those rare moods where doggish comments are likely. Jubal Jim made such a comment some years ago when combating a submarine. He pointed his rear end at the Canal, put his nose to the ground so that his haunches rose, and then he lifted his tail. Thus are reputations made.
On this magic day of autumn sun Jubal Jim trotted in the forest where a dog may be unencumbered by leashes or people; where a dog can lift his leg to claim territory and bragging rights, or sniff out varmints, or dig gopher holes for the fun of it . . . there being no expectation of actually catching one. A dog can sniff trails not worth following, or stand and give voice to houndish-opinions.
And a dog may pause at the site of an ancient and forgotten Indian village where, through centuries, mud washes away revealing decayed artifacts. The mud, which slid in a foul storm five centuries ago, was once part of a foothill. When the great slide happened it brought with it trees and boulders. What a dog now sees is a rapidly rising slope on which are rooted large trees and tangles of blackberry; and where, occasionally, a stone or ivory tool, once useful, lies exposed as water drains off the hill.
And a dog may stand in the forest, apart from people, but watching them. Jubal Jim sat on a rise that overlooked a road filled with traffic. A yellow crane tilted crazily beside the Canal. As people cussed, and an occasional honk sounded because someone was desperate for a drink, water swirled along the shore.
Jubal Jim watched as a head appeared from the water, red-hair, permed, and simpering. The head was followed by a skinny body, as the guy stood watching traffic. The guy did not drip.
Jubal Jim stood separated by a good forty yards, what with road and beach, but Jubal Jim has a hound’s voice. He rose to all fours, barked a harsh warning, and got the guy’s attention. Jubal Jim’s voice sank to a growl, threatening, loud, snarls sounding across the road from his cover of trees. The guy tried to step forward, was stopped. Jubal Jim’s voice rose even louder with threat. The guy simpered, shrugged, and sank back into the Canal as drivers kept their gazes fixed on the back ends of cars in front of them.
Jubal Jim, whose nose is every bit as good as the miracle-type nose of a bear, turned as he picked up a delightful scent carried by sea wind. He headed back into the forest where Annie walked.
The Hustle Begins
The fisherman rode shank’s mare to Beer and Bait, walking slow and a little painful past backed up traffic and parked cop cars. Odd, how quickly a guy got used to being decrepit. Odd, how the mind still worked, but slower. The fisherman walked because traffic backed up to south-a-Cincinnati, and he didn’t feel like putting up with it.
Something big was gonna happen. When Annie returned from the forest accompanied by Jubal Jim, she remained curiously silent. A guy could tell, though, that a decision had been made. The fisherman thought maybe he ought to go back and talk her out of what she decided was gonna be. Then he thought, no, nope, uh-uh.
She deserved to take her innings. It seemed like this deal ran on rails. A smart guy just had to stay off the tracks.
Except he had not stayed off the tracks. He had walked right up to that mess with the cop; and while the cop might have learned something . . . or maybe not . . . the fisherman only learned about his own obscurity.
Annie had to know that he had been sort of brave. Or, anyway, stupid in a brave sort of way. Annie had watched him closely, saw the way he slumped with age, and he saw sympathy in Annie’s eyes. It was like her. If she felt sorry for herself it didn’t show, yet she pitied him. To be the object of pity . . . that he couldn’t hardly bear to think about.
Annie had not looked at him with intimate thanks. She assumed he had defended Sugar Bear. It did not occur to her that he had tried to defend Annie.
Now he ached as he walked, and obscurity walked with him. If the whole rest of the world didn’t know about the costs of love he guessed he could bear it. He could put up with being one more blip on the radar screen, one more ball cap bobbing among the crowds, one more pair of trudging feet in the passing show. Being misunderstood by the one you loved meant that finally, when your part of the passing show had passed, oblivion was the desired and logical end.
And what was so all-fired great about thinking, anyway? Look what it did for Socrates.
The parking lot of Beer and Bait was so crowded with iron a guy had to squeeze between bumpers. Beer and Bait stood with its door wide open to catch swirls of wind now gusting to maybe twenty-five knots. The wind would make life bearable, because the crowd inside would bring the place to boiling.
On the front steps a bunch of guys sat drinking beer or pop as they bulled and soaked up sunlight. Wind wrapped around Beer and Bait. It caused cigarettes to burn a little faster, beards and hair to flatten; but these were workingmen, outdoors guys. They knew that when sun shines, take advantage. They looked like a group picture of nineteenth-century loggers, except the beer guys automatically concealed their beer in case of cops.
The tape deck in Beer and Bait sat silent. A low murmur sounded from inside where players tried to be polite while others jousted. Serious dough was at stake. Loud mouths would get shown the door.
As he rounded the corner of a van the fisherman saw the tow truck kid not fifty feet away. The kid sat in the cab of his pickup, doors open for the breeze, radio on but subdued. The kid sat lost in either thought or misery.
When the fisherman came near the kid looked glad. Then he looked shocked. The fisherman paused, tried to figure why, then remembered that he was older than usual.
“It’s a long story,” he told the kid. A realization came to him, crawling all over him, that life was shorter now. Life was gonna be brief. It came to him that if he was this much old, he ought to be a lot more smart. He told himself he ought to feel scared, but only felt dull, flat, toneless.
He watched fear in the kid’s eyes. “Stay away from the dunk site,” he said. “Have nothing more to do with this.”
“I heard bull about the cop.” The kid eased from his truck, and the kid was timid. “You part of that?”
As the fisherman told the story he watched the kid go stupid.
The kid was getting his back up. The kid was ready to fight. “Believe what you’re seeing,” the fisherman told him. “Stay out of it. You saw what’s out there. Now we know what it can do.”
From inside Beer and Bait came a pause in the murmur, then excitement, then voices that could not hold back as someone made a genius-type shot.
“I’m teamed with a loser.” The kid tried not to let his own misery get in the way of the fisherman’s misery. “Might as well start some crap, might as well take a swing at it . . .” He realized he was talking like a kid, and started over. “If there’s nothing we can do, how far are we supposed to run?”
“I got no answer,” the fisherman told him, and figured a change of subject was in order. “Teamed with a loser?”
“This team stuff is bull,” the kid said. “One on one is the way to go. Why the team stuff?”
The fisherman had not seen the player lists. He thought for a moment. “Because rich guys need help. They probably bought help, because they can’t haul their own freight.” He leaned against the truck. His weight pressed against the truck, like muscles were glad to take a break, like his body tried to figure out just how tired it was. “Don’t get in for more than ten bucks worth,” he told the kid. “The game is rigged.”
“I gotta understand this.” The kid’s mouth tightened. Flesh lay smooth across his face and arms, but firm, like he’d suddenly shed his baby fat. “There’s not only teams. There’s a sneaky guy in there, checking the action . . . looks like Deputy Dawg.” He reached behind the truck seat and pulled out his cue. The cue case was getting worn. A new cue case would make a better hustle because it would yell “amateur.” It would suck other players into bland assumptions.
“I’ll watch that show,” the fisherman said, “but I wouldn’t touch it. Somebody’s gonna hurt, and hurt bad.”
“I got a reputation needs defending,” the kid confessed. “A guy can’t duck that kinda thing.”
“You don’t see Petey. If this was legit you’d see Petey. Take it from Petey. It’s time to walk away.”
The kid looked insulted, then he looked afraid, like he stood in the presence of a crazy person. “Petey’s gone. Petey’s drowned.” The kid pointed to the Canal.
“I forgot. You don’t know about that. Petey’s not dead. It’s a hustle.” As the fisherman explained, the kid’s eyes grew wider. Then he grew pale. Then he realized that he’d been brought in on a secret that almost nobody knew. He looked proud.
“I got some stuff to learn,” the kid said. “Or maybe I don’t want to learn it. Who would have ever thought . . .”
The fisherman looked across the tops of cars, looked at guys loafing on the steps of Beer and Bait, looked at tree tops beginning to sway as wind blew stronger up high. He figured Annie was weaving weather. He wondered idly if it was time to head for high ground. Then he stopped being idle and thought of escape routes. “Nice truck,” he said to the kid.
“To tell the truth,” the kid told him, “it’s a pain in the keister.” The kid also looked around, at high-priced iron, at junkers, at working trucks. “It’s for sale,” he said about the Dodge. “I got my old rig out of impound. I’m rebuilding it. I really liked that little outfit.” Then the kid became shy. “Seems like I’m figuring something out. What do you reckon?”
“There’s all kinds of hustles,” the fisherman suggested. “Maybe you’ve hustled yourself.”
“Probably,” the kid admitted. “Seems like I’ve been doing that since about first grade.” He rattled his cue case, looked toward Beer and Bait. “So it’s rigged. So they teamed me wrong on purpose.” The kid looked toward the Canal where little wavelets danced before the wind. “I ought to be steamed, so how come I ain’t?” Then he answered his own question. “In a little while I’ll walk in there, shoot a hot stick, and lose. Guys will say it means something, and I’m gonna grin like it don’t mean nothin’, because it don’t.”
The fisherman privately told himself that miracles happen. This was a smart kid. In the middle of all this badness, something good. “There’s no such thing as an honest hustle,” the fisherman suggested. “Seems like you just made a choice.”
“Seems like.” The kid turned toward Beer and Bait. “You want to watch the show?”
The fisherman looked toward swaying treetops. He thought of his boat. It was doubled up on lines long enough to handle a rise in tide. He reminded himself he had no place to go, and no way to protect who he loved. “It’s gonna be illuminating,” he muttered. “Why not?”
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The crowd inside Beer and Bait seemed nearly civilized. A few loggers even used words of up to two syllables. Hustlers kept their yaps shut as cueballs clicked, and as the aromas of fresh beer, and stale beer belches swirled through cigar smoke.
Rich guys in pas
tel golfing togs played to a gallery of butterflies. The butterflies, gorgeous from a distance, perched at tables arranged on the bandstand. They could see over heads of a crowd seated around small tables on the dance floor. The butterflies chatted and sipped nectar. They colored the joint with tones most gorgeous; pink and mauve, orange and money-flavor, buttercup yellow, aqua-teal, and purple.
A young guy at the bar took one look at the fisherman and offered his barstool. The guy looked happy, like he’d already lost the tournament and was free to enjoy the rest of the day. A nice guy.
The fisherman felt insulted and ready to fight. Then he remembered how he looked. Not many guys were polite to old men. He said his thanks, took a place at the bar, and had a great view.
Through windows so clean you couldn’t see them, the fisherman saw moderate chop rising on the Canal. To the east, and headed seaward, a crab boat glowed yellow and blue in sunlight as it traced a silver wake. Toward the middle of the Canal the creature moved ever so slow, like a wreck adrift. Waves were not yet breaking, but chop caused white furrows between crests. The fisherman shuddered. His storm gear, boots ‘n all, were parked in the cabin of his boat. He figured that mister sun would last another fifteen minutes before dirty weather hit.
A low murmur came from the crowd as a logger made a miracle type shot, then ran the table. The game of nine ball, it should be noted, moves quick. It’s possible to drop three or four games without getting a shot. The game asks for plenty of positioning, combinations, and not a few banks. The excited murmur came mostly from the crowd of Beer and Bait regulars, not from the butterflies who were otherwise occupied. Stinky stuff has a way of happening.
Because, arranged around the large room, poolers and wives and girlfriends sat at tables and sipped beer or pop. The women; secretaries, sales clerks, waitresses with rough hands, dressed in blue jeans and logging shirts, or ready-to-wear skirts and blouses. Hair was nicely brushed, tied back, or with bangs, or shoulder length and swingy. Bottoms were narrow or broad, legs slim or chunky, shirtfronts abundant; but mostly, the ladies broadcast vitality; were alive. The Beer and Bait ladies watched the butterflies, and the ladies were hostile.