by Paul, Lawton
We got the Muscovy carcass out of the trap and it floated off, a gray and white ball of stinky duck flesh, the skin soft and soggy. Where had all the feathers gone? We let the trap drag behind us for a minute or two. "Let's clean the trap out a bit," the old man said. About the time we'd gotten it cleaned and baited another crabber came up. It was none other than McCready, Johnny's dad. He pulled right up next to us, both boats rubbing together. I held his boat, and McCready held onto ours so we could stay together and chat. The old man had warned us about McCready. We weren't supposed to talk to him. Most river rats were poor, hard-working people, but generally good. And they all loved the river like the old man. McCready was a former criminal. He and his older son had been in jail. The old man didn't say why they'd gone to jail. I was convinced they'd killed someone, but Tyler said they'd still be in jail if they'd done that. He figured they stole something to pay for drugs.
I was thinking he might bring up the whole Johnny vs. Matty and Jesse thing, but he never did. He probably had no idea what Johnny was up to. And it turned out the muscovy was his little crabber joke, but we weren't going to play the game.
"Y'all find anything strange in one a y'all's traps?" said McCready. He gave us a big smile. One of his front teeth was brown, the rest yellow. One black hole where a tooth was missing. Both boats drifted together. It was quiet without the motors running and I could hear the cars on Heckscher Dr.
"Nope," the old man said, scratched his elbow, then patted his T-shirt pocket searching for a cigar. He found one near the compass on the console and lit it with his silver Zippo lighter. I didn't say anything. I had my best poker face on but suddenly thought I might laugh so I had to look in another direction. There were some apartments out on Rock Island on the other side of the river and I pretended to watch some guy who was fishing.
"Y'all sure there weren't nothing in a trap?"
"Yeah. Bumpers," said the old man.
The old man and McCready talked about bumpers and the price of crabs at Carroll's. I was still just staring out in the other direction when McCready said, "That's where I live." He motioned out toward the apartments. "Y'all remember--?" But his words were cut off because the old man had fired up the Evinrude and hit the gas in one quick motion. He didn't even say goodbye, just raised his hand. I looked back and waved and we headed for the next trap.
We sold our crabs at Carroll's Seafood, but we just called it "the market." Once the old man had parked the boat at Carroll's, usually Tyler would jump up on the dock with a gaff and hook one end of a box. And with Tyler pulling from above and the old man in the boat pushing up from the boat, they could get 100 pounds of crabs up to the dock.
That day there was about five feet from the bottom of the boat to the dock. I grabbed the gaff, jumped up onto the dock and reached down and hooked a box. The old man just looked up shaking his head, nope. "Go get Squeek," he said. So I ran into the market to find him. Squeek was a shrimper. He and the old man were friends and helped each other out. He was skinny and wore blue mechanics coveralls and a faded Yankees baseball cap. He didn't have many teeth left, and when he laughed you could just about count them all. He spoke in a language all his own. A sentence was one long word that sounded like singing and laughing all at the same time. When I told him we needed some help, he said, "HeeOwnLehYehPooDaBox," which meant, "He won't let you pull up a box." He looked at me and laughed.
So Squeek and the old man got the boxes up. Then he headed back into the market to weigh his catch. He'd been shrimping all morning. Now all we needed to do was get the boxes into the market, weigh them, then get paid. We used an "L" shaped, two-wheeled dolly to move the heavy boxes. I slid one box on, then the old man and I put one more on top. I'd come back for the last one. Tyler usually handled the hand truck, too. But I grabbed the handle, put my boot on the axle and leaned the boxes back, balancing them on the wheels. It wasn't bad at all. The weight, 200 pounds, was on the wheels and all I had to do was push. I can do this, I thought. I leaned into the hand truck and got the boxes headed for the entrance to the market.
About half-way down the dock I spotted a small hole where part of a board was missing. If one of the wheels dropped into the hole the whole thing would tip over, so I went around it. But when I turned to avoid the hole one of the wheels dropped in between two boards and the top box tipped over onto the dock. There was a crunching sound as 100 pounds of crabs hit the deck. The corner of the box hit first. The wooden support braces snapped with a crack, and then the dock was covered with escaping crabs. My heart sank. I was still holding the dolly handle, with my head down. Then I remembered what Aunt Jeannie said: fall to the ground or stand and fight?
I pulled the dolly wheel out of the crack, grabbed the top box, which was still about a third full, put it back up on the bottom box, then yelled to the old man to throw me the tongs. He tossed them up, cussing the whole time. Crabs were spreading out in all directions like spilled water, some went straight down the dock towards the market, some went right off the edge of the dock on either sides and fell plunk, into the water, their two rear swimming legs spinning like propellers. They moved sideways in the water with their big claws tucked in.
Some crabs made it over the edge of the dock only to land in one of the other boats docked there. They'd hit the bottom of the other boats and make a hollow plonk sound. I was snagging crabs as fast as I could. By this time the old man was on the dock. He'd put his boot over the crab so it couldn't get him with its claws, then grab it by the swimming legs in the rear and toss it into the box. Some barefooted guy who had been sleeping behind the market started putting crabs into a bucket at the end of the dock. He was using a stick to trap them, and then grabbing them by the rear like the old man.
One woman whose boat was docked at the far end was about three steps onto the dock jabbering away to her husband, a cup of coffee in her hand, before she realized she was standing in the middle of the Great Crab Escape. The crabs just went right around her feet. She started screaming. The couple were wearing little canvas boat shoes that rich people wore. They'd come to the market to get fishing bait. The husband started trying to step on them, but when he raised his foot up, the crabs went out of escape mode and into defensive mode with their claws up, tracking his blue shoe--a dozen or so crabs raising and lowering their claws all together, like a dance. A few seconds later, he was howling and jumping around with a crab clamped onto the end of his toe. The wife had wisely backed up into the market where the scales were. The guy with the bucket came over and dumped them into the box. The old man had calmed down considerably by then. "Go ahead and take a few, if you want," he said to the bum.
"Thankyeh. I jus' take a few stragglers over there." He pointed back toward the market.
When the dust settled and we had all the crabs we could find back in the top box, we'd lost about half a box. The rich couple walked by and the man stopped and wagged his finger at us, his weight on one leg, like Aunt Jeannie right before she laid into us. "You know--" he started to say. And then I saw a side of the old man I'd never seen before come out. He stood up straight and suddenly was a little bigger, both hands balled into fists. He gave the man a savage look and shook his head. "You just keep moving," he said. And that is what the man did. I wondered if there were a few big males waiting in their boat. More gifts from the river rats.
I didn't stop to ask if it was okay. But I grabbed the dolly and this time I went as straight as possible so there was no chance a wheel could get caught in between the boards again. And I made it into the market. When I wheeled that last box in I was never so happy to be in the stinky, old fish market. The very back had concrete floors that angled down towards the river and garden hoses so you could clean the floors and water down crabs, fish and anything else that came through. There was a big scale that could weigh up to about 500 lbs. of crabs at a time. Once we'd weighed in, we got a receipt from PK, one of many rubber-booted workers who weighed crabs and shrimp, filleted fish and packed up bait shrimp in the back.
When we walked into the nice part of the market, PK was in the back dumping ice onto the top of our crabs with a snow shovel.
A big, blonde, German lady named Gerta worked the cash register at the front and the old man liked to sit behind the counter next to her on a plastic bucket. The old man handed her the ticket.
"258. I thought you had three boxes?" she said.
"We did," said the old man. She didn't take it any further. Then he tapped my leg and pointed at the drinks on display in the big glass-door cooler. I walked past the rows of shiny red and blue fishing rods, and grabbed a Yoo-hoo and two cheese and peanut butter crackers. He drank black coffee in a styrofoam cup, occasionally dipping his cracker--little crumbs floating on the top. Gerta handed him a wad of cash. He held out a $5 bill for me, my usual cut, but I just shook my head.
"I owe you," I said. 50 pounds of crabs was over $25.
"Just take it and quit yer yappin'," he said. I put the bill in my pocket so we wouldn't have to argue. But I didn't want it.
He rolled the rest of the bills up loosely and jammed them into the pocket of his old t-shirt. About that time Danny, the owner's son, rolled up. He was in his twenties and had a thin mustache and blond hair down to his shoulders. He wasn't wearing boots and his jeans were clean. He was an upper-crust river rat for sure. Mr. Carroll, his father, always drove around in a new Cadillac--big, four doors, lots of chrome. And the color was never simple like white or blue. Mr. Carroll's Caddies were Aztec Gold, and he let everyone know.
"You 'bout to spill some cash there, Arty," Danny said, grinning and pointing at the old man's bulging pocket. The little mustache stretched out even thinner than before. "I'm 'unna have to follow you 'round and wait for somethin' to fall out. Hey, where's old Eagle Eye? I see we got Little One all present and accounted for." He was leaning on the counter blocking a customer holding a bag of bait shrimp. Gerta shooed him over and the man put his bait down next to the register.
"Let's see..." Danny said rubbing his chin, looking at me with his head tilted sideways, sizing me up. "Big one is Eagle Eye 'cause he can see a buoy from a quarter mile in the dark with one hand tied behind his back. What's this Little One called?" There was a long pause while the old man tried to think of something funny to say. Then a smile burst onto his face like someone had just handed him the keys to Mr. Carroll's caddy.
"Oh, this one's Seagull. 'cause all he does is eat, squawk and poop," said the old man. Danny busted out laughing, started flapping his arms like wings and did a little dance, nearly knocking down a stack of red coolers on display. Gerta was giggling. Even the guy who bought the bait was smiling like he was a part of our little joke.
"Seagull! That's fantastic!" said Danny. By then, Squeek had come up and caught the joke, his high-pitched laughter sounding more like a man who was in pain.
I just stood there, half a cracker in my hand, but not hungry anymore, wishing I was home. Finally the old man put an end to it.
"Ahhh, it ain't that dang funny," he said.
We left the market to a chorus of "eat, squawk and poop" and "Arty gotta an eagle and a seagull on the same boat." It had been a long day and it wasn't even 10:30 am.
I knew he didn't mean anything bad. None of them did. But right then, I hated them all.
The Great Spaghetti Incident
On Monday morning I hoofed it to Matty's house, wondering if he would even talk to me. Maybe I'd have to walk alone to school like a loser. And that's a bitter pill because there wasn't anyone else to get mad at. I'd screwed myself.
Matty's house was cool because it looked like it was about to be eaten by plants. In the winter you could see the sides, the rough white blocks made with tiny shells, but it was late summer now and you only saw a tangle of giant, green fingers rising up from the ground on either side. The thick oak trees hung over, gray Spanish moss reaching down, touching the roof in places. In the center of the vegetation was a light blue door flanked by two windows. The door was the only thing left to indicate there was a house. Most people had well-manicured lawns they watered and mowed and mulched and sweated over on weekends between glasses of iced tea. Matty had weeds about knee high and some other shrubbery growing in odd places in the middle of the yard--runners from the original shrubs at the front of the house that had gone rogue.
Matty's father usually answered the door, but that day no one came. I knocked again, and stood there alone on the porch for a few minutes. The mailman walked past, short pants and hairy legs, said "Good morning," but all I could muster was a half-smile. About the time I decided to head out, I figured I'd try the door: it was open. So I poked my head inside and yelled, "Matty!"
Long pause. "What!?" yelled Matty from his room in the back of the house.
"It's Jesse!" Another long pause.
Then finally, "Yeah, come in."
It was like a cave inside: dark, with secret passageways leading to places no one had yet discovered. A snooper's paradise. Dusty boxes piled up in the corners, some stacked up next to the sofa like an end table with coasters on top. Usually there was light coming from the kitchen to help you get your bearings. In the living room, the dim glow of an old radio dial reached to the edge of the sofa and died, leaving the back wall shelf, full of books, records, dead plants, and God knows what, a mystery.
I walked in to Matty's room that morning greeted by the gurgling, bubbling sound of a fish tank full of guppies. The females were plain little fish, but the males had colorful tails.
Matty was rummaging through his dirty clothes hamper. "Dude," I said. Matty was holding one white tube sock with blue and gray stripes. He didn't look up. "Dude," I said again. But he still didn't look up. He found a sock with a green and yellow stripe combo, tossed it aside and continued digging. "DUDE!" I yelled.
"What?" He looked up from the hamper.
My throat got a little tight and my voice went soft. Suddenly I was a little kid again and I had to tell AJ I'd broken the glass window pane on the wash-house door with a rock. But this is Matty, who knows me better than anyone, I thought. By then Matty had started to look at me funny which didn't help. So I just shotgunned it--a little stiff, but it got out all the same: "I'm sorry I didn't do anything when Johnny came at us," I said.
"No worries," he said. "Who else am I gonna hang out with?"
Matty put the blue and gray striped sock on one foot, and the green and yellow on the other. With his jeans on, you couldn't tell. I was starting to get bummed out so I changed the topic. "Where's your dad?" I asked. Every morning his dad answered the door: scraggly beard, blood shot eyes, white coffee cup stained light brown in spots, and the same blue University of Florida sweater. He was a homeless man trapped in a house.
"He's working now," Matty said. Ever since Matty's parents broke up, his dad had quit work. He said he was writing a novel. There was a typewriter on the dining room table.
"Yeah, I think Dad and I might have to clean the house." It was the understatement of the decade, but I nodded like it was a good idea I hadn't thought of.
"You know the 10th grade school trip is coming," Matty said.
"Yeah, my only chance to see Hailey without her giant, meat-head boyfriend," I said, glad to be talking about something else.
"And you can't go."
"Why not?"
"You don't know, do you?" Matty loved knowing everything before everyone. I sat down on the floor next to his fish tank and pretended to be interested in the guppies. Matty had a little treasure chest half buried in tiny blue and green rocks connected to the aerator. The lid would open and big bubbles floated to the top. He put on a green Star Trek shirt, stood up with his hands on his hips, and like a doctor telling the family the patient had died, said two words: "Marine World."
I felt like a balloon with a slow leak. I laid on his floor for a moment, stared up at his ceiling fan. The windward side of each blade thick with dust. Aunt Jeannie wouldn't last two seconds in this place.
"Just be sick that day," said Matty. "And what were you gonna
say to Hailey anyway? 'Hi, I'm Jesse the crabber, and would really like to get to know you. I have no car, no money, no letterman jacket, and my only friend is a loser named Matthew, who, in his spare time enjoys getting beat up by Johnny McCready.'"
The hallway of Northshore High School's 10th grade building in late August smelled, and looked, like new tennis shoes--extra white, just out of the box. Everyone was going in different directions, some carrying large biology books (green tree frog on the cover), or geometry books (large triangle on a blue sky background). But if you were smart like Matty, you got the purple calculus book.
After Mr. Standish's 3rd period biology class I went to my locker, dumped my books in and waited. Joey Crutchfeld, whose dad was a shrimper, rolled by and said, "What up, Seagull?" I just waved and smiled. Pretty soon Matty came up. Most kids had that I'm-new-here, wide-eyed look about them, scurrying around trying to remember where there next class was, but Matty looked like he was walking to the kitchen in his own house. There were no mysteries. I was staring down the hall towards Hailey's 3rd period class. I'd seen her walk in just before I went to Standish's class.