Tampa Bay Noir

by Colette Bancroft

  A bell rang and the students told him it was time for morning announcements. Dolphin Daybreak played from a mounted television set. Through the din came details about “a troubling development at GBH.” Someone had broken into the Dolphin Store and stolen donated prom dresses for the upcoming spring dance. A fifty-dollar gift card would be awarded to anyone providing information on the theft.

  His ears perked up, but fifty bucks still seemed a little light for the seat upgrade.

  “Care less, bitch,” a skinny surfer called out to a plus-sized girl. “They wouldn’t have your size anyway.”

  The two looked as if they were about to come to blows, but the dismissal bell seemed to break it up before Abel had to.

  He realized as he left that he’d failed to pass out the report cards. They were in a folder he’d set near the computer monitor. The kids didn’t exactly strike him as the types to be excited about bringing them home. There wasn’t much he could do about it now. Angelo could pass them out tomorrow, he guessed.

  Maybe that’s what set Cody off. Report card day could be a bitch for the likes of him. Abel went back inside and snuck a peek. Below Cody’s address, 1489 Sea Breeze Lane, the grade column confirmed his hunch.

  In fifth-period Woodshop, a message on the blackboard greeted him. Students Not Allowed on Machines—Liability Issues/Movie or Study Hall. Abel found the DVD on the desk. The playback deck was coated in a layer of sawdust, but thankfully it worked. The jacket cover description promised extreme surfing action.

  “I’ve seen this before,” someone called out in a nasal drawl. “The soundtrack shreds.”

  This back-row endorsement seemed to be shared by most of the class, and Abel immediately sensed the spirit of cooperation that had been sorely lacking in second period. These kids might actually stay in their seats and not try to run anyone’s hand through a belt sander.

  The class buzzed with chatter about a cold front moving into the area. The system would move out by tomorrow night, but for a brief time the gulf would have waves. He’d seen an item in today’s paper about an early spring storm fouling airport traffic in the Southeast. The only time the gulf had surf was when it sucked for someone else. Like the Labor Day when Katrina clobbered New Orleans. He had tried not to think about the Big Easy going under as he boogie boarded on some of the best waves he’d ever seen in the area.

  Abel made a quick tour of the shop, sidestepping lumber strips, lathes, and table saws. Cabinets labeled Student Projects were locked. He inspected the craftsmanship on an unvarnished Adirondack chair before venturing back to the classroom section and sat near a tanned, flannel-clad freshman. Power chords accompanied surfers hopping up on their boards and gliding into huge barrels.

  “Hey, Mr. Sub,” the boy said, “I like your shirt.”

  A Hawaiian print his wife had given him on his birthday. He liked its baggy comfort, plus, he had to admit, the busy pattern could camouflage food stains.

  “You surf?”

  The question unexpectedly lifted his mood. This was more like the vibe he usually got from the Gulf Beaches High surf crowd. He was tempted to fib, but why spoil a gift?

  “I boogie board,” Abel said. “I thought about checking things out after school.”

  “Cool. It’ll probably be blown out, tomorrow might be better.” Then the boy asked, “Do you think I could borrow a dollar?”

  Ah, the joys of this job. Did a day ever go by without a kid hitting you up for money or saying you smelled? Abel put a pause in their little chitchat and got up to stretch his legs.

  Subbing was his way of testing the waters of a second career. The television production company he’d worked at for eight years had folded a few months ago and he was still adjusting to his new freelance status. From what he’d gathered, competition was steep in the market. But he’d told his wife that money was put away for times like these. The problem was, as his current checking balance bore out, he’d damn near exhausted the rainy day funds.

  Tucked in the corner of the shop, he saw a surfboard and a skim board, both apparently in the middle of some refurbishing. Perched on a couple of saw horses next to them was a stand-up paddle board in the early stages of construction. A tableau of surfing hierarchy—surfers, paddle boarders, skim boarders. Boogie boarders, or spongers, were at the bottom of this food chain. He’d never stood up on a surfboard, never mastered the arm push-off with synchronized knee-tuck, then the pop-up that took one from the prone to pouncing position. He caught his waves lying down.

  Back at the instructor’s desk, he noticed some referral forms under a cabinet-making manual. The Disrespectful or Discourteous box seemed a little light for Cody’s morning performance and there wasn’t much room in the teacher comments section either. He’d have to choose his words carefully to adequately describe what went down during second period. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been looking for these earlier in the other classrooms he’d been in. Word was that teachers here hid the forms from subs in an effort to cut down on the inevitable infractions. He’d also be lying if he didn’t think there was more to Cody’s performance than his report card. That prom dress business seemed like the type of mean-spirited prank that was right up his alley. Maybe Cody got wind that they’d be talking about it during the morning announcements and wanted to make it look like he had a good reason to bolt before anyone in class started pointing a finger at him. Abel decided to just stick to the facts: Student said substitute smelled like a bad burrito and walked out of class.

  The movie’s closing credits scrolled. A dull ache began to run up the base of his skull. As if a small act of kindness might blunt his headache, he chipped off a buck to the kid who had sucked up to him earlier and asked him to take Cody’s referral to the office.

  Abel’s horror stories from subbing had led his wife to suggest they pull Emma from their zoned elementary and put her in private school. The luau was the first function his family would take part in at St. Cyprian’s. He was keenly aware of the importance of getting off to a good start. Subbing was all about the first five minutes. A bad takeoff on a wave could be brutal. For Tori and Emma’s sake, he wanted their coming-out party to go well.

  * * *

  At home after school, Abel let Emma watch the Disney Channel when she’d finished her math and spelling. Tori was at the gym. Tonight was his turn to fix dinner. She’d be home a little after five and liked eating before six.

  She and Emma seemed so happy with Emma’s new school surroundings. A welcome change to his wife’s glumness over the holidays; Tori had turned forty in November and didn’t seem too happy about it. With her uptick in mood, she seemed to be putting in more time working out and was quite proud of the ten pounds she’d shed since the first of the year.

  Abel flipped a switch and the ceiling fan in the kitchen clicked on, its loud droning motor yet another reminder of something else he couldn’t afford to fix right now. He pulled out a package of chicken breasts and gave it a smell test. It was past the due date. Iffy at best; he set it on the counter.

  In the back of the freezer he found a box of fish filets and considered other instant options. He glanced over at the bad chicken. There was always the chance Emma or Tori could come down with some bug and they’d have to miss the luau. He’d gladly eat the tickets.

  Emma busted Miley Cyrus moves in front of the television. Did he actually just think that? He tossed the chicken out. A whiff of something foul escaped from the garbage can. Tori entered the house from the attached garage. Above the strains of “Party in the U.S.A.,” she cried, “What smells in here? Did someone forget to Febreze?”

  Part of their new dinner routine since switching schools was Emma leading them in prayer.

  “From-thy-bounty-through-Christ-our-Lord, amen,” they mumbled in rapid-fire unison.

  Abel had traded in his knee pads some time ago but was dusting them off tonight, asking that the calls he’d made to every business contact he could think of would bear some fruit.

  “
Daddy,” Emma said, “on announcements they told us they’re still looking for donations. Me and Lita laughed at that. We said it sounded like they were looking for donuts.”

  “Donuts.” He hoped they didn’t detect his unease. “Cute.”

  He sensed his wife’s disappointment with dinner, but complaining when he’d gone through the trouble of fixing something wasn’t her style. She pushed back from her plate and declared that she had a surprise in her car. She took Emma’s hand and led her into the garage.

  “Tell your daddy to close his eyes.”

  In a few minutes the two appeared back at the dining table in matching outfits. Hawaiian shirts knotted at the waist. Tori looked great in her white denim shorts, which were shorter and tighter than Emma’s. She twirled for inspection.

  He tried not to spoil the moment and smiled and marveled.

  Tori grinned back. “Emma, let’s take these off before we get something on them.”

  “Thank you for the present, Mommy.”

  The two disappeared to change. Front-of-the-room threads, he thought.

  At bedtime, after reading to Emma, he lay down and tried to relax while Tori brushed her teeth.

  “Have you given any more thought to the school service hours at St. Cyprian’s?” she called out from the bathroom.

  “Not really.” Although he knew they were subject to a fee if parental involvement hours weren’t fulfilled.

  “The Pot of Gold in April sounds good,” she said.

  “The ol’ Pot of Gold.”

  Repeating her words rather than saying something he might regret was a technique he had often used in production meetings to tread water. He’d seen Pot of Gold marked on the kitchen calendar. At first he thought it might be a new restaurant she wanted to try. It fell on a Saturday in April, which coincided with a job he was hoping to get crewed on.

  “I was planning to talk with Lita’s mom at the luau about us getting involved with the event.” She began to undress. “I hear the cool parents work it and she’s the chair.” Down to her underwear she added, “I’d rather do that than the Lenten fish fries.”

  Perhaps he should tell her now about the luau. She slid out of her bra and panties.

  “Sounds good to me,” was all he could manage.

  “How ’bout this?” She struck a pose. “This sound good too?”

  He tried to manufacture enthusiasm to match his wife’s, but the more she tried, the worse it went for him. She was kind enough to give it a rest without asking, Is anything wrong? Perhaps it was because he’d been considerate during her sullenness after her birthday, when part of their agreement was to “go easy on each other for a while.”

  He kissed her forehead, relieved she didn’t press him further, but he was ashamed by his lack of performance. He padded lightly to the spare bedroom-slash-office. After a while he moved to the couch in the living room, trying to shake spasms of worry. Worry about the freelancing and the added burden of private school. Worry that he didn’t think he could hack it in the classroom. Worry that in three days he would blindside two people he loved with the embarrassment that they were sitting in the back of the parish hall at the luau.

  The image of Cody paid an unwelcome visit as he tossed and turned. Abel fixated on that golf tee dangling from his ear.

  * * *

  At five in the morning he called the sub-finder system. What he didn’t need was another floater assignment like yesterday’s, one that left a something’s-gone-terribly-wrong-in-your-life feeling. Unfortunately, everything offered seemed worse. Today, Tori was working a shift at the cell phone kiosk in the mall and he had to pick up Emma by three. But he also knew it would be a bad idea to be in the house when Tori and Emma got up. He wasn’t up to answering, What are you doing here?

  By eight they’d both be gone. He left quickly, quietly, and waited for the nearest Starbucks to open.

  * * *

  When Abel returned home, he found that Emma had left him a hand-drawn card on the dining room table. It had beautiful shapes of orchid-like blooms, pineapples, and a picture of an angry-looking island god with an evil smile on his face. She signed her name and added, Our class made a picture that looks like this.

  He thought, No dad wants to tell his little girl no, but this has gone far enough. He would tell them today instead of springing it on them at the last minute. This, he had to get right. Maybe not subbing and running the risk of wearing defeat from another lousy day was a good idea. So too was getting his blood pumping by catching some waves. A little exercise couldn’t hurt, could it?

  He grabbed his wet suit, fins, boogie board, plus a water-sport hood and gloves for the chilly conditions. He also grabbed Emma’s card before tossing everything into his truck.

  The lot at 12th Avenue was full of cars sporting surf-brand decals as well as Gulf Beaches High parking stickers. He was lucky to find a spot. Beneath the shadow of a high-rise condo, he suited up in the bed of his pickup. Embarrassed of his middle-aged paunch, he thought of women putting on shape-wear as he stepped into his wet suit.

  Wind rustled palm fronds overhead. He removed the truck’s door key and stashed the clip with the ignition and house keys in the glove box along with his phone. A strong gust of wind blew Emma’s card out. He retrieved it and stuffed it in his backpack.

  Near the sea oats, he kicked off his flip-flops and set his stuff down. He was heartened to find that the waves had enough shape to propel a middle-aged boogie boarder forward, and pulled on his fins at water’s edge and wrist-leashed his board. The break was better off to his right but he wanted to stay clear of the traffic, a small pod of surfers, no doubt skipping school.

  Taking in a breath of tangy air, he watched youths glide across shoulders of waves. He waded out. A burst of cold water seeped into his wet suit as he ducked under a shore-pounder. He found a sandbar about seventy-five yards from shore where his feet could touch bottom and he could catch the inside break. A wave three feet higher than his shoulders approached. He hoped he was good enough not to waste this gift. A honed sense told him when it was time to take off, and there was no changing his mind after deciding to go. The wave began its bend. He lunged forward and angled down the face. The swell’s force lifted his legs then dropped him, leaving it to him to maintain balance or taste defeat. Teeth clenched, he landed with a light bounce and got a face full of water. He rode the wave all the way in and beached it like a kid. The bottom of his board scraped the shore, his arms extended forward, feet in the air, as if he’d just slid home headfirst with a game-winning run.

  The bigger sets were about 150 yards from shore near the boat buoys. He paddled out and waited. A dolphin’s dorsal fin rolled above the surface and disappeared in almost the same instant. In the next, the unforgiving energy of the gulf was on him. He panicked. Unsure if he had the time to dive under. The bending crest collected him up to the lip and dislodged him. He rolled over twice before he could regain his balance. He kicked up to the surface and discovered that his board was still attached, but it strained the leash, waving on top of the water, as if motioning for him to go in.

  Yet he was just getting started. He continued to kick into the wind swells. His habit was to count the number of good rides versus wipeouts. Usually he had to be in double digits before calling it a day.

  At about wave number five, a surfer encroached from the north. The hooded figure had his head down. Abel figured the guy would drift past, but he stopped and paddled into the wave Abel had been setting up on. He pounced on his board and aimed the nose at Abel’s temple. Abel dove under and steeled himself for the skeg to rake his back. He held his breath until he sensed it was clear to pop up. The surfer rolled away above the froth, not kicking out, dismounting instead and jogging to shore with his board under his arm. Abel gave chase, but the clumsy wide ends of his fins dug into the gulf bottom. The rubber buckled and he tripped. One arm tangled with the leash as he dragged his boogie board forward. Abel got within a few feet.

  The surfer reached b
ehind his neck and grabbed the frill of his hood. “Sub dude,” he said, as tentacles of blond dreads sprouted. Cody tossed his board down. “I thought that was you falling over on your face. Figured I’d come over and say hello.” He snapped his hair back, directing the spray toward Abel. “I wanted to say thanks for writing me up yesterday.”

  Abel’s knees felt watery.

  “Ain’t nothing but a slip of paper,” Cody said.

  A slip of paper. Abel spit salt water from his lips and walked away, hoping Cody would follow, but he didn’t. As the kid had just demonstrated, anything in the water could look like an accident.

  As Abel faced the horizon, it dawned on him that it was about this same time yesterday that Cody had hit him with the homo-blast and paper ball. That smile on his face reminded Abel of the one Emma had drawn on the angry island god. The water inside his wet suit sent a chill as he paddled back out in search of wave number five.

  * * *

  After reaching double digits, he took his fins off in the shallows and jogged to shore. The beach was void of tourists in the unwelcoming weather. He stepped up the incline where the heavy surf had dug into the sand. The coquina was rough against his feet as he walked to where he’d left his belongings.

  He looked around but didn’t see anything but his flip-flops. In the distance, Cody and his group were back in the water. Abel wished there were some other explanation, like a huge seagull had flown off with his backpack, but he knew Cody and his crew had swiped it.

  Paddling over to ask for his things back would be futile. He wasn’t in the mood to be turned into a spectator sport again.

  Abel tucked his boogie board under his arm and walked to the nearest gas station to borrow a slim jim. As if to silence the soggy slap of his flip-flops, he let his thoughts run and became more convinced of what he put together in woodshop yesterday. If that kid had the balls to swipe my backpack while I was in the water, I know he thieved the prom dresses. He had a pretty good idea where to look.