Outside In

by Cooper, Doug

  Although I can’t hear the music, the rhythmic strumming of his right hand combined with the precise fingering of the left still sends a comforting message.

  Stein cruises up on his bike. “Did you think I forgot about you?”

  “Another drink and I wouldn’t have cared.”

  Trails may be scarce on the island, but hills are abundant. The climb is taxing but the descent is exhilarating. I stand on my pedals, lean forward, and close my eyes. I’m free.

  Stein veers off the road toward a white, barn-like building: the Island Bike Shop. Within fifteen minutes he’s equipped my bike with a headlight, taillight, and combination odometer and speedometer. He says, “After we finish up here, let’s grab a cold one at the Presshouse next door. I can show you my apartment on the second floor.”

  Judging from the building, the same architect responsible for the red barn must have designed the Presshouse as well. But the inside of Stein’s apartment is much smaller than our setup. It has no living room, only a tiny bedroom, bathroom, and kitchenette.

  Stein flops down on his bed. “Home sweet home.” Within arm’s reach are a guitar, a stack of books, a pad of paper, and an ashtray.

  “Cozy and functional,” I say.

  “It gets the job done.” He glances at his watch. “Ooh, I need to get to work at the restaurant. Want to come by for lunch?”

  “No, thanks. I think I’ll ride to the monument.”

  “Good idea.” He gets up from the bed. “It’s a clear day. You’ll have great visibility.”

  “What’s the best way to get there from here?”

  His brow furrows and he smirks. “Just look up. The monument is always there.”

  Five mph—7—9—16—20—coast. The clicking from my knobbed tires on the asphalt transforms to a hum as I gain speed. A tour train is ahead. Passing on the left will be too close, so I go right, through the grass.

  Perspiration builds on my forehead and sweat streams down my back. The humidity from yesterday has diminished, but my body still reacts to the exercise and to my extreme indulgence since I arrived.

  Perry’s Monument, which appears white from a distance, radiates a pinkish hue as I approach. It stands on a narrow tract of land that connects the west side of the island with the east. The surrounding acreage is flat, providing ample space for the four teenagers throwing a Frisbee, the two kids who have brought their kites, and the numerous sunbathers. Closer to the monument, the ground slopes up toward a square cement plaza that surrounds the base of the column. Four large stone urns decorate the corners of the plaza.

  A breeze drifts from one side of the water to the other, drying my sweat. I dismount. The hair on the back of my neck stands up and a shiver rifles down my spine as I ascend to the plaza and circle the pink granite base, counting the bevels: twenty-seven.

  The interior is tomb-like with domed walls and a limestone ceiling, stained in parts from the moisture seeping in. The inscription on the floor divulges that three American and three British officers are buried in the crypt beneath the white and black marble floor of the rotunda.

  American

  Marine Lieutenant John Brooks

  Midshipman Henry Laub

  Midshipman John Clark

  British

  Captain Robert Finnis

  Lieutenant John Garland

  Lieutenant James Garland

  The quiet penetrates. I stare at the names. The letters form other words, names from my old life that I want to forget. Breaking my trance, two children rush in and trample the inscription. They don’t care about what the silence might teach them. I follow them up the stairs, dragging my hand along the cool tile.

  The elevator returns and drops off fifteen people. A park ranger at the controls greets us from behind his handlebar mustache. “Good afternoon. Welcome to Perry’s Victory and International Peace Memorial. You are about to travel 340 feet above lake level. The observatory is the highest open-air platform in the country. The total distance to the pinnacle of the 11-ton brass urn on the top of the monument is 352 feet. The urn was designed by Joseph Freedlander, one of the monument’s architects, and built by the Gorham Company of Rhode Island. It was dismantled and sent to the island in sections. Upon arrival, it was taken to the top of the memorial penthouse and reassembled. If you were to start at the upper plaza and take the steps all the way to the top, you would climb a total of 467 steps. The monument was equipped with an elevator from the beginning. The present elevator went into service in 1939 and ascends at a rate of 256 feet per minute, or 2.9 miles per hour. On the return trip, you will be moving slightly faster at 325 feet per minute, or 3.7 miles per hour. I look forward to seeing you on the way down to answer any questions you may have. Please refrain from throwing objects from the gallery. It is slightly windy today, so hold onto any loose articles. Enjoy the view.”

  At the edge of the observation deck, only a four-foot concrete wall separates me from an attempt at flight. In just one motion I could be over the side. It would be so easy—too easy. I have to step back.

  In each corner of the gallery, a map and recording describe the naval battle that took place in the waters below: “Put-in-Bay was Perry’s base of naval operation in western Lake Erie. During the decisive battle, Perry’s ship was badly damaged. Fleeing an ailing vessel, Perry moved to The Niagara, where he formulated a counterattack. Knowing the lake well, he baited the British into a shallow section, rendering them defenseless, as they could not turn around to position themselves for the fight. Perry then levied extensive damage on the British fleet, leaving them minimal opportunity but to surrender and thus leading to Perry’s elevation to hero status.”

  Was he a hero, though, or just lucky? Did he win the battle, or did the British just fuck up? What a bunch of crap—just another tale passed down generation after generation to justify bloodshed. Who was Oliver Hazzard Perry really? Does anyone know? Does anyone care? Yet here in his honor is a 36-million-pound column.

  My discontent has accumulated over the past months, searching for a leak in the dam I’ve constructed to separate my true feelings from the situation closing in around me. I just want it all to fucking stop. I’m tired of blaming society, my job, and my family for making me into the person I’ve become.

  The tape I was listening to has stopped, but I continue to stare at the water below, still picturing the battle and thinking of Perry. I guess it’s better to be lucky than good any day. Regardless of how it happened, though, the battle was won, leading Perry to send the famous correspondence to William Henry Harrison that Robin mentioned on the trip to the island, reproduced on the plaque in front of me:

  US. Brig Niagara, Off Western Sister Island head of Lake Erie, Sept. 10, 1813, 4 p.m.

  Dear General—

  We have met the enemy and they are ours, two ships, two brigs, one schooner and one sloop.

  Yours with great respect and esteem,

  O. H. Perry

  How I wish I could encounter my true enemy.

  The same ranger operates the controls for the return trip. “I hope you enjoyed your visit. Does anyone have any questions?”

  A young boy asks, “How long did it take to build?”

  “The monument was built in thirty-two months, from October 1912 to June 1915. It was built to commemorate the centennial anniversary of the conclusion of the War of 1812. It has undergone several renovations over the years, one of them being the addition of a lightning arrestor system. In July 1920, lightning struck the northwest corner of the observation gallery, knocking off a 200-plus-pound piece of granite. It fell through the plaza below and into the foundation room.”

  As I imagine a sizable chunk of granite plummeting from the top, the elevator’s abrupt stop startles me. A smirk creeps out from behind our guide’s mustache. How many trips has he made to perfect that delivery?

  The steps from the elevator platform dump me back into the rotunda. In between me and the outside world stands nine-and-a-half feet of rock. I know this feeling
. This is my life.

  I lay out my uniform for the night, the creases in the chest and midsection still visible in the new shirt. Am I really qualified to be a bouncer? I haven’t been in a fight since the third grade, when Charlie Watters teased me about having a crush on the teacher. Not to mention I’ve spent most of my adult life in a classroom. But to go from prepubescent adolescents to drunks may be a lateral move.

  I stare at the postcard of the monument that I bought for my parents, unsure of what to say. I feel bad about the way I acted the last time I saw them. Too late for apologies now. Just keep it light. Got here safely. Having a blast. You can reach me at Brad Shepherd, General Delivery, Put-in-Bay, OH 43456. Will call soon. Love, Brad.

  Cinch is on the other side of a knock at the door. He enters with his work shirt draped over his shoulder. “Ready to hit the employee lounge? There’s a small bar tucked away upstairs at the Boardwalk where I go for cocktails during my break. It’s owned by another one of the main families on the island. Ya gotta love the setup of Put-in-Bay. A few families own most of the businesses, hire people to come to the island to work, house them in cramped living conditions, and don’t give them anything else to do, so they go out and give their wages right back to the owners. Fucking goldmine.”

  The Boardwalk stands opposite the Jet Express, across the four strings of public docks. It appears to be more of a restaurant than a bar, but I’ve already learned, regardless of the façade, most establishments do a significant share of bar business.

  Cinch and I pass through the restaurant to a flight of stairs by the back patio. Upstairs, two people wearing matching shirts are at the bar hunched over cocktails, obviously preparing for work just as we intend to. Bob Marley’s “No Woman No Cry” plays softly from speakers behind the bar, which is lined with candles that fill the air with the smell of vanilla.

  Cinch motions to the bartender. “Give me two of the usual, T-Bone.”

  T-Bone ices two glasses, puts several oranges through the juicer, and adds vodka and a splash of cranberry.

  I ask, “Do you have a different drink for each bar?”

  “This is the only place with fresh-squeezed juices. Most places have that shitty bar mix—gives me heartburn. I could drink these all day. Especially when I’m partying. They’re refreshing, yet extremely potent when made correctly.”

  Nodding to the bartender, Cinch guides us to a table overlooking the public docks, away from the other people in the room. “Since you’re living in the red barn,” he says, “I need to explain something about the drugs.”

  “You seem to have it under control,” I say. “Drugs and alcohol are a nice place to visit, but you don’t want to live there.”

  Cinch raises his eyebrows. “What if someone were to work there?”

  I lower my voice to a whisper. “A dealer?”

  “Drugs cost money. I’ve got the connection. Everyone who wants to play has to pay his share. I risk bringing it here and holding onto it, so I deserve to pay nothing and to make some money on the side.”

  “What if you get caught?” I say, wondering if the “you” really means “we,” since I’ll be living with him.

  “I only deal with people I trust. I sold spring break trips in college to pay for my trip. Did that make me a travel agent?”

  Later, on the sidewalk in front of the Round House, a line of people winds through a portable tape maze.

  Cinch says, “I love this time of evening. Everything is clean, and the customers haven’t gotten their second wind yet. When we charge cover, people first enter through the maze, show their ID, and pay cover to get a wristband. After that, they can enter through any entrance or exit. All you have to do is direct them to the side to get a wristband and keep the entranceway on the porch clear.” Cinch steps through the entrance and leads a man in his fifties onto the porch, fastening a band around his wrist. “Good evening, Senator. How many in your party tonight?”

  “Senator, hah!” the man says. “With what I’ve done on this island, my political career was over before it started. Four should cover me for the night.”

  Cinch says, “Is that it? Must be a slow night on the docks.”

  The man slides twenty dollars in Cinch’s pocket. “Won’t be slow tomorrow. Stop by my boat for a beer.”

  Cinch will be my entertainment for the evening. He’s the politician here—a lot of handshaking and smiling. This is his constituency.

  Finished for the day, Caldwell strolls through the park toward the Round House. The mandolin hangs from one shoulder, his backpack from the other. He crosses the street and stops on the sidewalk, peering inside at the crowd. His face glows from being in the sun all day.

  I ask, “How were the tips today?”

  He shakes the jar. “Sixty-four dollars and thirteen cents. Pretty good for this early in the season.”

  A man like Caldwell can live for a while on sixty-two dollars. Cinch told me that because of Caldwell’s long tenure and year-round presence, beers come pretty cheap and no one ever expects a tip. It’s not out of pity; everyone just appreciates having him around. With only a few hundred year-round residents, what other choice is there but to take care of each other?

  I hold out a wristband. “You coming in?”

  He removes his black baseball hat and tucks his thin, silver strands behind his ears. “Nope. You’re Shep, aren’t you?”

  “Have we met?”

  “Nope, just heard and seen you around. Name’s Caldwell.”

  He is tranquil when he speaks, making the fugitive stories difficult to believe. I say, “Oh yeah, Cinch told me you used to play in bands or something.”

  He smiles. “That’s one of the stories.”

  Regardless of what his words actually are, everything he says feels like he’s patting me on the back, saying, It’s okay, I understand. His past doesn’t matter to me. I marvel at the free man standing before me.

  He stares into the Round House again then shakes his head. “Think I’ll go down the street. Stay out of trouble, Shep.”

  The people flow in and out like the tide. When Whiplash starts a set, they wash in, and when the band takes a break, they retreat onto the porch and into the park for fresh air. During one of the intermissions, a pair of hands reach from behind me, shielding my eyes. Their smooth texture and jasmine fragrance divulge their owner’s identity.

  I say, “If you’d like to come in, the cover is three dollars. Right around to your left, miss.”

  Cinch emerges from inside and ends my game by fastening a band around Astrid’s wrist. She says, “At least one of you is a gentleman. What’s up for tonight?”

  “Let’s drink here for free and move the party to the red barn,” Cinch offers.

  “Always the planner.” She turns her penetrating stare on me. “Brad, how was the monument today?”

  “Kind of eerie—like last night in the water. I felt connected and detached at the same time.”

  “Wait until you go there in the dark,” she says. “It’s spooky but comforting. Definitely special.”

  At close, it takes us thirty-five minutes to clean the mess that took six hours to create, including using a wet vac to suck up the liquid that stands an inch high in some parts of the floor. Judging from the pungent smell, it’s not entirely beer. Afterward, we all quickly catch up with the rest of the island. I’ve never seen anyone drink Cuervo straight up with a Coke back, and I’ve never seen anyone consume as much tequila as Haley does in the short time we’re at the bar. In Key West, she drank whiskey and only did shots with the group. Tonight Cinch keeps her shot glass full, and she finishes each one regardless of whether we’re drinking with her or not.

  Both elbows on the bar, Haley slumps over her empty shot glass. “If you want to go meet the others, don’t feel like you need to stay here with me. Won’t be the first time I’ve been drunk alone on this island.”

  “Come upstairs with us,” Cinch says, pouring her another tequila. “Was hoping to snag a case of beer from the
cooler and replace it tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry about replacing it,” she says. “Consider it a welcoming present for Brad. I’d join you, but I’m opening tomorrow.”

  To Cinch, a case of beer translates to a case and a half and two bottles of wine. Taking the alcohol appears more like entitlement than stealing. His carefree attitude represents everything I wish I could be.

  But the refrigerator in the red barn poses a dilemma: sacrifice the food or drink warm beer? Cinch solves the problem by clearing the takeout boxes from the second shelf. “Food, like sleep, is optional. Now I just need to make a drop at the Park Hotel and we can start this party.”

  I say, “Do what you got to do, but I don’t want to be present for the transaction.”

  Astrid says, “Me neither.”

  Cinch removes a calculator-sized digital scale from his pocket. “No big deal. You guys wait here. No one will even know you were wise to it.” He tears off a corner of a magazine page, creases the paper, and places it on the scale. Scooping out a few pebbles from his bag, he adds some dust until the digital readout oscillates between 0.7 and 0.8. He picks up the fold of paper and pours the contents into a one-inch square green resealable baggie. “Be back in a flash.”

  I rearrange items in the room, avoiding eye contact with Astrid. She confronts the awkwardness. “Just be careful with all this.”

  “What do you mean? It’s got nothing to do with me. I just live here.”

  “For now.” Her eyes narrow then soften. “It’s only your second day.”

  Cinch returns and slaps a hundred-dollar bill on the dresser. “Thanks for shopping. Let’s party.”

  The blinking beacon on the monument encourages me like a flirtatious wink. The comfort I felt last night at the boat ramp is with me here as well.

  Cinch reduces his voice to a whisper. “Let’s climb up in one of those stone urns on the plaza.”

  I hand the bottle of wine to Astrid. “If I’d known there would be a physical challenge, I wouldn’t have drunk so much.”