WARRIORS

by Warriors (retail) (epub)

  “Came north with our own boat, man. On the steamer. New engine boat.” Everybody at the table turned his way. Gus looked around, saw their attention, and tipped his cap at a jaunty angle. “That’s right. Brand new boat. Thirty-two footer. Ninety-five horsepower engine, drives through a two-to-one reduction. Hydraulic power roller. Don’t have to yank your guts out to pull ’em aboard.”

  The sounds of chatter from other tables emphasized the silent attention at their own. Gus leaned back and drank some of his coffee. Nobody spoke, but no one turned away. He stretched and continued. “Yep. Picked her up right from the Seattle boatyard. That hydraulic roller, now, you can put her either astern or amidships, or even close to the bow if you figure on bow picking—all three positions. Little wheelhouse with a roof where you can sleep dry. Port and starboard, there’re seventy-some gallon tanks for the gas—keep you going for days. Fish hold capacity: forty-five hundred sockeyes. Yep. Come off picking nets and go sleep dry in that cabin. Tell you, it beats sail and oars.”

  After a silence all around, Russ cleared his throat. “You’re John Rosvic’s boy, right? Your dad with you on this engine boat?”

  “Just still squaring away at the bunkhouse.”

  “You came in your own boat, and the cannery’s going to put you up?”

  “Wave of the future, sir. Sure they are. Who’s going to deliver to them after everybody gets their engine boats, if they don’t put us up?”

  “Huh.” Buck Jones finally broke the silence that followed. “Well, Gus, that’s nice,” he said slowly. “But what bothers me just now is, I don’t think much of some boats staying ashore while the rest of us go out. Should be that all of us in the boats stick together.”

  His comment snapped them back to the original subject. “That’s their problem,” said Russ brusquely. “Lot of those guys in that new union are Natives. Want to have their say. I can understand that, since they live here, but just the same they’re dumb heads being told by outsiders what to do.”

  “Maybe I’m the dumb head,” said another man. “But damn if I can keep all this strike and union shit straight.”

  “From the little I understand,” Russ continued, “This new union’s made of two parts that keeps fishermen and cannery workers separate. That right? Now in the old days—into the early ’30s—it was the chinks from I guess China that come over every year to work the lines, and one white man just answered for them all. Had no trouble anywhere, according to my old man. Now, though, it’s not only Natives with their own new union, but mostly gook Filipinos on the slime line, and I hear even they have their whole other union. And then some Natives in the boats with their union. Everybody thinks he’s got a say.”

  Buck growled, “I don’t say these locals shouldn’t have a piece of things. But if we go tie up our boats on strike, the fish will pass through, and who will make out? You tell me now, who’ll make out? Somebody with a Russian accent, ten to one.”

  “You’re making this mess as clear as anybody, Russ,” said another man. “Still confusing. It’s the commies running these new unions. That’s what they say. Even our old one, some say. Suits ’em fine if we all go broke. That way they can take over. So! Last thing I plan to do is follow what some seat-of-the-ass union tells me to do. When the season opens at six next Monday morning, nobody try to stop me putting my nets in the water!”

  Buck Henry turned to his son. “Now, here, fellows. My boy Jones. Marine come from fighting the Japs. Couldn’t anything better than that earn him his right for a say here. What do you think about all this new union stuff, boy?”

  They gave him their attention. Jones took no time to consider beyond what had been his intention all along: “I came up here to catch fish. Next Monday, whoever else goes out and fishes, that’s what I plan to be doing!”

  “Now that says it!” declared Russ. “How do you say it any clearer than that!”

  Buck Henry looked around proudly as he rose. “Anybody who cares to stay dry next week, that’s his business. Guess me and my boy had better get back to work. Got a mast to step. Then some oars, for a marine strong enough to handle anything. See you out on the water!”

  “Goes for me too,” said Gus. “Got to work that new engine to make payments.”

  Several at the table remained seated, their eyes back on Gus. As Jones left with his dad, Russ was saying, “Now just how much did that new engine boat set you back, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  The twenty-five-foot mast was indeed heavy, even though Buck and Jones first lifted several to find the lightest available. With two sets of shoulders they didn’t need to wait for a dolly to wheel it. But when Jones started to raise the foot of the mast into its collar, his father called: “Hold it. You forget something?”

  “You don’t still do that?” laughed Jones.

  Buck Henry rummaged in his hip pocket and pulled out a coin. “Not that it matters. But I polished this penny to a shine before we left home. Inspected it first to make sure Abe Lincoln’s face wasn’t scratched.” He placed it carefully at the bottom of the cradle. “Face up, Mr. Abe. Watch out for us, now. Along with them three pennies from other seasons I see down there alongside.”

  Part of Jones wanted to scoff. But a larger part of him felt a rush of pleasure. Anything that hadn’t changed was good. Anything that hadn’t been fucked by the war. His father might have begun to grumble that, but for the canneries holding on to an outdated law, they’d have a boat with an engine and a small cabin. But what about fishing under sail wasn’t like play after fighting the Japs?

  The work of stepping the mast firmly into place took an unexpected length of time. Indeed, the boat had been worn to death in some ways. Jones needed to cut wedges in the carpenter shop, then fit them between the mast and the sleeve before the mast rode firm in its cradle without so much as a wobble. Then to the oars. At the distribution loft, Jones accepted what the man handed him. The sixteen-foot oars all looked heavy, so there was no point in being choosy. He was man enough to pull anything. But to play the old game, he wrapped hands around one of the thick shafts and nodded toward his dad. “Now you try yourself to make sure it fits.”

  “Long as it fits your hands I’m okay with it, boy.” Buck patted the shaft. “Fits yours right good, I’d say.”

  “You ain’t so dumb,” said the oarsman to Buck Henry. “Brought you a strong boat puller along.” He had shaggy white hair and knotted hands. Probably an old timer. “Don’t I remember you from nine, ten years ago when I still fished? I never forget a face. This here the kid you used to bring with you?”

  “No better kid anywhere. Been a marine sergeant! Fought his way against the Japs all across the Pacific. Put the damn bastards in their place.”

  “Good man!”

  “Listen. Give you an example—”

  “Lay off, Dad,” muttered Jones. His tone showed he meant it. The heavy oars rested lightly on his shoulder as he arched his back and strode off.

  16

  BECOMING AMERICAN

  Kiyoshi and Mr. Goss followed Mr. Scorden. The workmen they passed along the way moved with purpose and did not stop to bow when the director walked by as they would have done in Japan. The man who had stared at them with an unmistakable scowl lingered in Kiyoshi’s mind and made him uneasy. He had been a man of about Kiyoshi’s own age, tanned and vigorous—as American workmen so often were. A face vaguely familiar. But so many American faces looked the same. In Tokyo, he had grown humbly accustomed to hostile stares from some of the conquerors. They might indeed have suffered by the hands of the Japanese soldiers—only fulfilling what they thought was their duty—before the defeat. Whatever the circumstance, the man’s gaze had been so steady that it was only polite to acknowledge it with a small polite bow, although he felt uncomfortable—un-American—doing so. The gesture had not been returned.

  Mr. Scorden led them to an open vehicle with a seat wide enough for three. He seated himself behind the steering wheel and gestured to Kiyoshi. “We shall go to the office
. Hop in, as they say. If you wish.” And to Mr. Goss, abruptly: “Follow in the car, sir. Tell the driver to follow.”

  Mr. Goss hesitated. “Probably room in your golf cart there for the three of us so we don’t get separated.”

  “No, no, too crowded, sir. Please take the automobile.”

  Kiyoshi had hoped that they would enter one of the processing buildings so that he could observe the machinery, but instead Mr. Scorden drove straight up a sloping causeway toward his office. Midway up the hill, however, he stopped the vehicle and asked curtly: “How many fish buyers in Japan do you represent, sir? For how much money?”

  “Five purchasing companies, sir. I am authorized to speak for purchases that can be paid in money up to forty thousand American dollars.”

  “You will pardon my asking. Americans in Japan have been good for you, I think? They did not so much destroy, I understand, when Japan lost the war and they occupied your country?”

  Kiyoshi frowned, not sure that he understood Mr. Scorden’s meaning, and wary of where this might lead. “Hai. Americans. They were . . . okay.”

  “You see, I came from a country where the Germans destroyed much. Much has been rebuilt, but very slowly. Even with the great energy of everyone. Even with generous help from America.” Mr. Scorden’s eyes narrowed. “So. What do the Japanese think of America?”

  Still on guard, Kiyoshi decided to be honest with his own feelings rather than to echo those of so many Japanese—like his father. “It was good luck, sir. Good luck for Japan that America defeated us.”

  The answer appeared to satisfy Mr. Scorden. He re-engaged his vehicle and drove the rest of the way to a building with a porch. Inside, they passed beyond the counter of a small store that displayed candy and clothing (what kind of an office was this? Kiyoshi wondered with sudden doubt) into a back room with a proper desk and filing cabinets.

  “Grab a chair,” Mr. Scorden said and brought one over. Mr. Goss, when he trailed in from the car, was left to find a chair for himself. The office was not elaborate, Kiyoshi noted, but still properly businesslike, with papers arranged neatly on the desk.

  “Not much around here,” said Mr. Goss conversationally. “What do you do for kicks?”

  “Work a little bit harder, sir.”

  Mr. Goss laughed. “Nice answer. Might have guessed.”

  Mr. Scorden turned to Kiyoshi. “You wish to stay until you can inspect the fish, is that it?”

  “Yes. To . . .” Kiyoshi searched for the English word that he had learned for this circumstance. Ah. “To ascertain, yes, to ascertain if the red salmon product has been prepared with Japanese quality standard.”

  “What’s your requirement of quality, I wish to ask?”

  “Good color, sir. Bright red color for red salmon product. And freshness. Having good smell, you understand? Freshness to the nose. And good appearance. Must be without cuts into the . . . uh . . . flesh.”

  “Well. To see this, you must remain here more than one night. A few days at least.”

  When Mr. Goss complained that he wasn’t authorized to stay several days, it seemed to Kiyoshi that Mr. Scorden was as glad as he was himself to assure the official that he could leave next day without a problem.

  Later, Mr. Scorden took them to a room in a long wooden building. It was furnished with two cots and a nightstand on bare floorboards. “For guests,” he declared. “Other rooms have four or six bunks, you see. Shower baths with heated water are down the hall if you wish.”

  “Think I’ll wait to wash myself till I get back to civilization,” Mr. Goss replied.

  Mr. Scorden shrugged. “Toilets there also, of course, sir. Down the same hall. If you cannot wait until civilization.” The cannery manager then escorted them to what he called the mess hall. Kiyoshi found it a noisy but cheerful place, where food of uncanny variety was offered for their choice. Not all food was prepared for the finest depths of flavors, perhaps. But such abundance! And such easy waste of food ordered but not finished! Kiyoshi watched vegetables and even large pieces of meat slide off plates and into garbage cans. Happy people, to do this without a care.

  That night, in the cannery’s bare guest room, Mr. Goss grunted complaints about the accommodation. Kiyoshi listened restlessly. He finally excused himself with, “I must go to find the toilet, sir.”

  In the lavatory down the hall, he had stared into an adjacent room where pipes in the wall spouted down steaming water—a true shower compared to the ones from a half decade before in the American prison camp, where cold but clean water dribbled down from a cistern. For all the years of peace, he had bathed in tubs or communal pools of comforting hot water, never forgetting the terrible years of war and privation when often the only means of cleaning oneself—even in desperation—was with a rag dipped in a barrel of scummy water shared between dozens of men. So. American bathing!

  Back in the room, he again excused himself from the grumbling Mr. Goss and walked back down the chilly corridor carrying a clean towel and the bar of soap left on the nightstand. In the steamy room he undressed and nodded shyly to other naked men already standing under the sprays of water. These men did not necessarily seem to be officials—were perhaps mere workers—but they all talked amongst themselves with a rough good humor impossible not to enjoy. By now, Kiyoshi had concluded that few Americans cared about the exciting art of Jackson Pollock or any other of the great modern artists. But American boxing and baseball were, possibly, another matter. From his concentrated reading back in Japan, he found the courage to venture, “It is now only three weeks away. In the city of Pittsburgh in state of Pennsylvania. Who shall win the boxing fight, please tell me? Mr. Jersey Joe Walcott? Or Mr. Ezzard Charles?”

  “Hey,” one of the men said. “Listen to this.” In the friendliest manner they began a discussion of the two fighters, with laughing questions put to Kiyoshi about his own choice.

  “I wish only advice, please,” he said, still bashful under their attention. “Go on, man, let’s hear it. Choose!”

  Kiyoshi looked from one to another. Their expressions were not hostile. Emboldened, he declared, “Mr. Ezzard champion!”

  “Hey guys, hear this. You got five bucks in your pants says?”

  Kiyoshi backed away. Had he been mistaken, and was now left in their power, naked and vulnerable? Or were they actually inviting him to gamble with them?

  “I do not understand, sir,” he said to gain time.

  “Back in your pants—wherever they are—, man, your wallet. You got five dollars to bet on Ezzard Charles?”

  They were inviting him! Like an equal American! Happily, he replied “Hai, hai. Yes! Back in pants, excuse me, I will go and . . . produce!”

  “Relax, take your word, take your word. None of us going any place but here. Hey, what else do you people know? Ever heard of the World Series?”

  “Hai. Baseball! Yankee team from New York City!”

  “This man’s buzzin’! So, couple months from now, who’s going to win the World Series?”

  Ever since his encounter with American World Series baseball outside the Tokyo train station, Kiyoshi had studied to keep up to date with the major teams each year. The effort was not difficult, since many Japanese had become enthusiastic about this fascinating game. It was also easy for him to choose his favorite team, since New York was the city he most wanted to visit and the New York Yankees had won every World Series but one since 1947. With happy confidence he declared, “Yankee team shall win again. Yogi Berra! Famous Joe DiMaggio! ‘Scooter’ Phil Rizzuto!”

  Their laughing cheers were beyond his wildest fantasy. Yes. Even in this remote wilderness of America, surrounded by dangerous animals perhaps just near the buildings, there was American conviviality and abundance beyond the dreams of the Japanese.

  Back in the room, Mr. Goss muttered, “Well, now you see how they stay clean in the boondocks. I’m sure you people have worse back in Japan, but don’t take this as typical over here. I’ll be glad to get back to a proper hot
el.”

  “Yes. Yes,” Kiyoshi said to be polite, hoping to avoid conversation.

  When lying in bed, Kiyoshi contemplated the future of his life. Japan was his home. And his culture. However. He resolved to participate in America in every way possible. Perhaps Mr. Scorden was also so resolved. It was why they regarded each other with narrowed eyes, but, he realized, with an understanding beyond the comprehension of Mr. Goss. For Mr. Goss had never been called upon to change himself.

  Three days later, now on his own in the room, someone rapped on the door at four in the morning. Kiyoshi Tsurifune was awake and dressed, although for form’s sake and to hide his eagerness he pulled the covers around his neck like a child and pretended to be asleep. A worker entered and shook him. “Swede says to tell you the scow’s nearly ready to take off to the grounds. Got a half hour to get down there. Guess they’ll feed you breakfast aboard.”

  “Ah. Yes. Thank you.”

  Alone again in the simply furnished room in which he’d grown quite comfortable ever since Mr. Goss had left it, Kiyoshi rose and stretched. Rays of morning sunlight gleamed orange on the metal rooftops outside the window. All he needed to do was put on and lace up the heavy leather shoes Mr. Scorden had provided him. That soapy odor of stiff new denim clothing remained the same as aboard the American warship six years ago. Only six years. Who might have believed at the time that the disaster wouldn’t last forever? No question any more of finding food for the next meal. How defeated and humbled he’d felt! So close to killing himself. Imagine. Now with American dollars possessed in abundance he’d gambled with Americans on the outcome of a mere boxing match!

  He put on the heavy jacket he had been given. They’d even given him rough warm clothing to wear, issued new from the store without charge at Mr. Scorden’s direction. (The denim pants he needed were two or three sizes larger at the waist than the ones now limp with washing that he’d preserved back home! Thus here was the real proof of prosperity.) His dark suit and silk necktie, which now appeared incongruous, hung in the safety of Mr. Scorden’s office. So also discarded, and placed beneath the suit, were the polished shoes with thin soles. No one would bother them, he’d been assured, since they were of no use to anyone here. All his papers, of course, had been locked in the office safe.