by Les Claypool
“Yeah? All right. What’s the damage?” asked Earl, digging into his wallet.
Ong tallied the items on the register. “Let’s see. Twenty-four dollars bait? And let’s see. Three fifty. Three fifty. Five ninety-nine. Mmm? Three dollar. Three dollar. Mmmm. Forty-seven dollars thirty-seven cents.”
“What’s the word? Anybody get ’em yesterday?” Earl asked as he handed over some cash.
“Mr. Dave on the Mud Hen said they got a bunch of shakers and one keeper just this side of the Pumphouse.”
“On grass shrimp?”
“No, he always fish mud shrimp,” Ong replied, handing over the change. “Most everybody in today are head for Richmond bridge.”
“What about during the week?”
“Pretty slow. Some action above the Sisters. My wife’s brother got a seventy-eight-incher Thursday.”
Earl looked back as he headed toward the wood-framed screen door. “Yeah? Grass shrimp?”
Ong shook his head. “Mud shrimp.”
Arms full, Earl pressed his back to the door and rolled out. “Well, adios, Ong!”
“Adios, Earl! Goodbye. Thank you!”
Ed and Earl climbed back into the truck.
“Twenty-four dollars for bait?” asked Ed in amazement.
“Yep, twelve bucks a pound.”
“Damn!”
“Yep, usually puny fuckers too. I think ol’ Ong’s eatin’ the big ones his self.”
“Damn,” grunted Ed as they pulled out and headed down the road.
Chapter 14
ENTER THE DRAGON
Earl and Ed arrived at the Richmond Marina boat ramp just as another boat was launching. Looking around, Ed was surprised by how much the marina had changed since he had last been there in his early teens. This particular ramp hadn’t even existed in those days. It occupied the space where the bar for the old San Pablo Sportsman’s Club once stood. Their father and both their uncles were club members, and they all had boats that were either docked in berths on the water or kept in dry storage on trailers in the gravel yard. What Ed remembered most about the place were the three massive amphibious airplanes that sat out on the point facing south toward the channel. The aircrafts, which had reportedly belonged to Howard Hughes, sat behind a cyclone fence just past their father’s boat trailer. Ed remembered well the many hours he had sat staring at these old war birds as his father worked on the Waterbed, the family boat.
As soon as one other boat cleared the ramp and tied off toward the end of the dock, Earl and Ed prepared to launch.
“You remember what to do, bro?”
“Yep,” Ed answered as he grabbed the bowline.
Earl pulled forward and then backed down the ramp, smooth as could be. He rolled the trailer down until the tailpipe of his pickup was nearly submerged. Then, with a quick tap on the brake, the boat broke free of the trailer bunkers and started floating. Ed took up the slack and pulled her into the dock, first tying the bowline to the dock cleat and then securing the stern. He rested his foot on the boat’s gunwale as she bobbled slightly against the rub-rail of the dock.
By this point, Earl had already parked the truck and was heading back toward the ramp.
“You remember to put the plug in?” asked Ed with a big grin.
“Bastard,” Earl muttered under his breath, and he then yelled out, “Ah, man, I forgot. Better get in there and stick your pecker in the drain hole so she don’t sink.”
They both laughed.
Years earlier, the boys’ father had let Earl take the family boat out on his own. It was just after Earl had gotten his driver’s license, and he was so nervous about pulling a trailer that he had forgotten to put in the plug before they launched. Ed, who had been there at the time, remembered Earl getting halfway down the dock and then suddenly running back to the truck. Ed had turned to the boat to see the transom sitting lower and the deck carpet in the ass end slowly getting covered with water. Earl was able to pull the boat out in time, but that hadn’t stopped Ed and Donny from badgering him about it for some months after.
As Earl headed back down the dock, Ed took a good look at his brother’s boat, a twenty-foot Skipjack with a six-cylinder Mercury stern drive. Their dad’s boat had been a Glastron, about the same size, but Skipjacks were the ultimate back in the day, and probably still were, by Ed’s reckoning. He could remember when Red bought this particular boat new. It had been the talk of all his father’s friends. Funny that Earl should finally end up with it.
“Lucky bastard,” he remembered his father saying a number of times after hearing of Red’s purchase. “I wish my wife would let me buy a new Skipjack.” More likely than not, the decision not to buy new boat at the time had more to do with a lack of funds than their mother’s disapproval. Ed couldn’t remember his family ever purchasing a brand new anything, be it a car or boat or washing machine—even their television had been secondhand.
Ed suddenly became aware of a rumbling noise in the distance. The sound had probably been there for a while, but he had been too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice. As the rumble grew louder, Ed realized that it was some sort of vehicle approaching. It sounded like a motorcycle, but not the healthy hum of a modern performance bike or the deep, throaty resonance of a latter-day Harley Davidson. It was more like a cross between a large riding lawn mower and a hopped-up VW Baja Bug. All at once, “it” came into view, a bastardized rigid-framed chopper with a four-cylinder inline Japanese engine with straight pipes running down the side.
The bike pulled up to the ramp and revved a few times, farting and popping as it settled back into its labored idle. The din from the engine was damn near excruciating, and the thought crossed Ed’s mind that anyone who would ride such an obnoxious machine must surely be an ass. Then it hit him. With a chill in his backbone and a gurgle in his gut, he winced, suddenly remembering something. Things had been going so well—the rich memories and nostalgia for the past, the morning’s events blossoming into what promised to be a fine day. But the past, Ed reckoned, can also bite you on the backside. This wasn’t just some random jackass on a gross, noise-polluting penis-extension of a cheap motorbike. This was none other than Donny Vowdy, one person who Ed could have happily gone the rest of his life without seeing again.
“There’s Donny,” acknowledged Earl.
“Shit,” Ed muttered to himself.
Donny came down the dock carrying a shopping bag and a cheap two-piece spinning rod and reel. He sauntered like a cocky rooster as he approached. He was lanky, but had a lazy gut that pushed at the bottom of his flannel shirt and partially covered the brass Budweiser belt buckle that pretended to hold up his tight stovepipe-legged stonewash jeans. He wore work boots and a waist jacket with a breast patch that sported the Raybestos brake pad logo. On his head was a black cap with gold leaf on the bill—“scrambled eggs,” as the El Sobrante boys called them. He had dirty, grease-stained fingers with black under his nails, and, like Earl, his eyes were sunken and his face was pasty and gaunt. He flicked his cigarette toward the boat as he approached.
“What’s up, dick! Almost left me, didn’t ya? You fucker!”
“We was tryin’,” Earl retorted. “You remember my bro, don’t ya?”
“Pee Wee!! Is that you? Damn, boy, I must be gettin’ old. Last time I saw you, you was shittin’ green.”
“S’up, Don?” said Ed flatly.
“S’up? Well listen to ol’ Pee Wee talkin’ like fuckin’ MC Hammer and shit. Sss’uupp?”
“Get in the damn boat,” said Earl.
Donny passed his gear to Ed and then stepped into the boat.
“Good to see ya, Pee Wee.” Donny shook Ed’s hand roughly, then turned and slapped Earl on the back. “What’s up, you old bag of shit?”
“Not much. Just waitin’ on you, boy,” Earl grinned.
Donny jumped back out of the boat.
“Hey, can you hold up a minute? I rushed out this mornin’ so damn quick I forgot to blow the mud out of my ass.” He
headed for a moment up the ramp to the bathroom, then stopped and turned to Earl. “You comin’, Earl?” He tapped the cigarette box in his breast pocket.
“Sure,” answered Earl, hopping out. “Watch the boat there, will ya, bro?”
“No problem.”
Chapter 15
BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
Don and Earl walked across the parking lot to the public restroom. Don headed to the first of three stalls, where he pulled down his pants and took a seat. Earl, who was right behind him, faced off with a urinal and started to piss.
“You didn’t tell me Pee Wee was comin’,” said Donny as he started to empty his bowels.
“Shit, I haven’t seen you all week!” Earl responded. “And I ain’t heard from him since the funeral. We’d talked about a possible fishin’ trip, and then he calls me a couple days ago and says he wants to go.” Earl gave a final squirt, shook away the last droplets, then tucked himself back into his pants.
Inside the stall, Don was fiddling with a tinfoil pipe fabricated from a cigarette package. He key-scooped some powder from a small plastic zipper bag he had just removed from his shirt pocket.
“Yeah?” He pressed the makeshift pipe to his lips, inhaling as he lit the powder. He simultaneously took a draw and farted—loudly.
Hearing the reverberated flatulence echo across the tiled walls and floor of the men’s room, Earl bellowed, “Damn, son! You’re gonna blow your guts out!” He laughed, then added, “Anyhow, I don’t think he likes you callin’ him Pee Wee.”
Don held in his hit as long as he could and then exhaled. “Shit! He’s the one that used to dress like that Pee Wee Herman faggot and ride around on that pussy-ass scooter. Here.” He passed the pipe to Earl under the stall door.
“Yeah, that was a long time ago,” said Earl, before putting the pipe to his lips.
“Where the hell’s he been, anyhow?” asked Don as he released another loud fart, followed by the telltale splash of a stool dropping into the bowl.
“Sacramento. He graduated state college. Got some sort of job in Berkeley now.” Earl’s nostrils were greeted by the pungent odor of Don’s excrement. “Damn, boy, whew! That’s some mean stank there.” He took a big hit from the pipe and could feel the warmth as the smoke hit his lungs, sending a shiver between his shoulder blades and shooting a tinge up across his scalp and down his back. He felt the synapses firing like a thousand tiny Pop Rocks crackling in unison through his skull. He grew faint for a moment. Flashing back.
One summer vacation, years ago when they were still preteens, Earl, Donny, and Earl’s cousin Tracy were playing a game in the living room while Earl’s parents were at work. The trick was for one of them to take twenty quick breaths and then one of the others would grab him (or her) from behind, wrapping his arms around the person’s chest and squeezing, producing a quick, low-budget head rush.
It was all good fun until Donny squeezed Earl a bit too long and too hard, and he blacked out, falling face first to the ground and smacking his front tooth out on the corner of the coffee table on the way down. He convulsed on the new beige shag carpet, blood pouring from his mouth as Tracy screamed in the background.
When Earl finally came to, Donny was holding his head and pressing a cool wet towel to the new hole in his mouth.
“Look, Earl, it’s like this. I threw the football in the house when you weren’t looking and hit you in the tooth,” Donny rapidly explained. “I’ll pay for the rug and dentist and shit. Just blame it on me. Got that? That’s our story. Got it, Earl?”
Donny had figured that Earl’s parents, like most of the other kids’ parents, didn’t much like him anyway. So what the hell? He’d be banned from coming around that summer for sure, but at least Earl could still come out. Donny was always quick like that; always had an angle or an out. He was good at damage control.
The fact was, Earl’s father had always had a soft spot for Donny, even though he knew what a pain in the ass the kid could be. He also knew that Donny’s folks didn’t give two shits about their son. Donny’s dad was an on-again, off-again car salesman who spent most of his time hanging out in the Limelight Tavern nuzzling up to lonely housewives. Donny’s mother spent her afternoons at the Silver Ridge Tavern being a lonely housewife. A good number of weekends, Donny would spend the night at Earl’s place, just to stay away from his parents’ bickering and battery.
Earl’s mind focused as he stepped to the basin to wash his hands.
“Hey, remember that day I knocked my tooth out on the coffee table?”
“Yeah, you dipshit. It cost me a hunert-n-twenty bucks,” Donny sniggered. “I got to finger-bang your cousin, though. What was her name again?”
“Tracy. That’s right, you prick. I’m sittin’ there with a towel full of ice cubes on my face waiting for my ol’ man to come home and kick my ass, and you’re in there fiddlin’ with my cousin. How the hell’d you pull that one off?”
“Charm, buddy. I’m just a charmer.”
Another of Donny’s farts resonated across the tiles.
Back at the ramp, Ed was sitting on the engine cover of the boat, feeling a bit bored. He looked at his watch and saw that it was 8:04 a.m. He groaned to himself, “Fucking MC Hammer shit.” Digging through his jacket, he pulled out a big roach and a Bic lighter. He lit the roach, inhaled deeply, and before exhaling, muttered through the smoke, “What a fucking dick.”
What irked Ed even more than the notion of spending the day dealing with Donny Vowdy’s personality was the realization that the guy’s presence would isolate him from Earl. What the hell did I come here for? he fumed. It was supposed to have been just him and his brother, spending the day fishing, bonding on one of their few common interests. Now, instead, it would be Earl and Donny, and just like in his youth, he would more than likely end up feeling left out.
Ed dug through his jacket and pulled out a plastic baggie. Eyeballing its contents, he exclaimed, “Now we’re talking.” Out of the baggie, he pulled out two enormous magic-mushroom caps. If this doesn’t get me through this day, then nothing will. He popped the caps into his mouth and chewed, wincing at the bitter taste. Why can’t they grow these things in something better tasting than cow shit? Gagging, he blurted out, “Goddamn, that’s nasty.” He reached into the ice chest and grabbed a beer, desperately trying to wash the foul taste away.
Back in the men’s room stall, Donny wiped his ass and inspected the paper. “Fuuuck! My ass is bleedin’ again.”
Earl was overwhelmed by the stench. “I can’t take this shit sandwich in here. I’m leavin’ this on the sink.” He set the pipe down on the porcelain. “Hurry it up. Tide’s turning early this afternoon.”
Earl headed out the door and back toward the boat.
“Almost there, bud, almost there.” Donny stood, yanked up his pants, flushed the toilet, and walked to the sink. Firing the pipe, he inhaled deeply and held it for a moment. Looking into the mirror, he exhaled and noticed what appeared to be a blackhead on the left side of the bridge of his nose. He smiled at his reflection, which exposed his less than perfect teeth. Finger-combing his greasy, disheveled hair, he spoke into the dank air, “Now that’s one good lookin’ sonsabitch!”
Earl and Ed waited patiently until Donny came strutting back onto the dock. As he approached the boat, he announced to the two of them, “I feel like I just dropped three pounds out the old shit chute.”
“Lovely,” said Ed.
The boat had already been idling for some time when Donny finally stepped on board. Earl popped her into reverse and slowly backed away from the dock, spinning the stern around to point the bow down the channel. He then shifted into forward gear. Donny reached down into the ice chest and grabbed a cold beer.
“Ya know, Pee Wee? Earl told me not to call you that anymore. Cuz he thinks you don’t like it. But I’ll be damned if I can remember what the hell your real name is.”
“It’s Ed.”
“Ed?”
“Yes, Ed.”
“Ed? I like that. Ed, Ed, gives good head,” Donny sang out, laughing hysterically.
“Yeah, that’s real clever, Don,” replied Ed. “Shit, I never heard that one before.”
“Really? You want me to say it again?” Donny laughed as he took the cap off his beer.
“No, that’s all right.”
Don took a massive slug from his beer and then shouted at Earl, who was navigating the boat through the no-wake zone, “Hey, where we goin’ anyhow?”
“Just a little south of the Pumphouse.”
“South of the ol’ Pumphouse, eh? All right, you ol’ greasy pecker-puller. Let’s go!”
Donny flipped the cap from his beer into the water as Earl punched the throttle.
Chapter 16
SOUTH OF THE PUMPHOUSE
Ed had always loved the ride out to San Pablo Bay from the Richmond Harbor. Besides catching a glimpse of Hughes’s seaplanes, it was a journey through history, though much had changed. Just past where the planes once sat was the site of the old Ford Motor plant. In the late ’70s and ’80s, the yard for the plant became a layover spot for incoming Japanese import vehicles. Before anyone knew that they made anything other than sporty motorcycles, Ed and Earl had seen Honda cars by the hundreds sitting on the wharf, waiting to be delivered to economically minded Californians.
Further down the channel was the massive dry-docks where the two boys had seen many a large vessel sitting in the yard in various stages of repair. Beyond that was the scrapping area where the upper helm of an old World War II submarine stood for a good many years. As a kid, Ed had often marveled over the action-packed adventures that the vessel must have seen in its day and always imagined that the random blemishes dotting the rusted exterior must have been bullet holes from some long ago battle fought with the “Japs.”
On the south side of the channel ran the rock wall that extended from Brooke Island, where it was rumored that Bing Crosby once kept a duck-hunting lodge. Ed and Earl had always fished the flats around the island for leopard sharks and dogfish with their grandfather during the summer breaks. They passed the posh little area known as Brickyard Cove, an upscale grouping of town houses and a yacht marina built over the remains of an old quarry. Like most of Richmond Harbor, these places saw their heyday during the peak of the war, when the area bustled with productivity fueled by the urgency to defeat the evil of the Axis powers.