The Sky Fisherman

by Craig Lesley

  My uncle nailed an old wicker creel to the wall by the coffeepot, and people tossed in dimes for coffee, quarters for bakery goods. Once a week he took out enough cash to buy another five-pound can of Folgers. The rest he gave to Homer.

  Gigantic Gabriel Webster had sparkling blue eyes and a smile wide as a Cadillac grill. The station manager for KRCW, he chose the handle "Gab" for his radio work—everything from selling advertisements and promotions to covering high school events. Gab could talk, as Jake pointed out, and he constantly kept a string of patter going. A tireless promoter of local businesses and events, he firmly believed radio spots could push merchandise.

  But for all his boosterism, Gab had a melancholy streak, the residue of years' selling door to door until he'd finally hustled his way into the heart of the station owner's daughter. By that time, he felt he'd missed his big opportunity, television. Handsome enough for the small screen, he had grown a little long in the tooth, and when he quit grinning, Gab appeared tired.

  Even so, his voice was rich and confident, making him seem bigger than he actually was, just a shade over six one. "This is Gigantic Gab on the radio giant KRCW-Gateway," he'd announce as he did his radio promotions, and listeners could imagine him as big as they wanted. "When I talk, I fill up their entire front rooms and kitchens," he liked to say. "Radio offers the power of imagination."

  Gab usually arrived a few minutes after Homer, and he put a pretty big dent in the pastry selections. When several locals had gathered to lounge in the back room, Gab would run four or five of his promo ideas by them. Big network stations did professional surveys, according to Gab; the smaller ones had to fly by the seat of their pants.

  Buzzy Marek, usually the next to arrive, was the best crop duster in six counties, according to Jake. "Most dusters brag about treetop level," my uncle said. "Buzzy swoops so low he's got to burp to clear the barbed-wire fences! His propwash flips over the plant leaves, so he dusts both sides with one pass."

  On first approaching Gateway, I'd seen Buzzy's yellow biplane, a Stearman World War II trainer he'd converted to crop dusting by replacing the forward seat with a hopper for chemicals.

  The optimum time for crop dusting was at first light, when dew still clung to the plant leaves. Buzzy started dusting around five or so, and by eight-thirty he'd stop for a bear claw and a cup of coffee. Goggles perched high on his aviator's helmet, Buzzy entered the back room, a faint odor of chemicals clinging to his gray-striped jumpsuit.

  "Damn, but I wish you'd change clothes before you walk in here," Jake would say. "You just go walking past the refrigerator and the worms drop dead."

  "It's good for your health, Jake," Buzzy might retort. "Sit next to me and you kill all the cooties you pick up from your girlfriends. Besides, you don't have any trouble with scorpions."

  The scorpion reference usually drew a hoot. One of Jake's selling gimmicks was to shake out any boots or hip waders before the customers tried them on, just in case some none-too-cozy creature had curled up inside. He expected spiders or maybe a beetle, but one day a good-size scorpion dropped out of a left hip boot, surprising everyone. Hitting the floor, the varmint curled his stinger and rushed the shocked customer. Shoeless, the dude jumped onto a chair and began yelling, thereby getting Jake flustered. Instead of stomping the insect as he should have, Jake tried whacking it with the hip boot, but swung awkwardly and missed. After missing twice more, he remembered to stomp, but by that time the scorpion had scooted among the piles of tennis shoe boxes and Jake had no luck finding it, even though he cautiously moved every box.

  Sniffy St. John, night watchman and glue mixer at the plywood mill, had witnessed the entire show, and by the time he retold the story to the mill boys, the scorpion had grown to lobster size and Jake was packing a short-handled shovel to deal it a lethal whack. For the next couple weeks, the mill boys came in to rib Jake about hunting scorpions, asking what sort of rifles worked best for large insects and trying on pair after pair of hip boots, looking for the critter.

  In self-defense Jake claimed there had never been a scorpion and reminded Sniffy's coworkers that St. John had sworn he'd spotted a flying saucer on Shaniko Flats early that spring.

  "I got out to pee and there it was, hovering and making this strange high-pitched whine." Sniffy had still shivered when he retold the story to me. "Looked like a baseball cap covered with aluminum foil. And when it accelerated, the foil glowed orange-blue."

  Jake had asked him if he'd shut off his truck engine and doused the lights. "Your own headlights can play funny tricks out there. Clouds and shadows make light warp."

  "I know what I saw," Sniffy insisted. "Followed me five miles until I hit the outskirts of Sherman. Each time it got close, I smelled ozone."

  The ozone detail didn't make sense according to my uncle. "All the benzene and formaldehyde Sniffy smells making glue have bent his nose clear out of whack. He can't smell liver and onions from a foot away."

  Back-room speculation concluded that Sniffy had seen too many double features at the Eltrym Theater. Weekends featured Japanese movies about space invaders—all with the same rocket-ship footage—as well as stories of gigantic mutant grasshoppers, ants, and crabs, the frightening results of radioactive experiments gone haywire.

  Although my mother turned up her nose at these movies, I was at least pleased Gateway had a downtown theater in addition to a drive-in. For us, that was a step up.

  Seaweed Swanson, retired chief petty officer, USN, smelled like warm wool and his marble-eyed sheep dog, Skipper. Without the bosun's whistle to wake Seaweed each dawn, his hours were irregular; he usually arrived late but never complained about cool pastry or coffee dregs. Anything beat Navy chow, he figured.

  According to Jake, Seaweed always had trouble with the clock and actually spent two extra years in the Navy before realizing he could retire with full pension after twenty. Seaweed blamed his personal time warp on too many trips across the international date line. "Those crossings added years to my service, but I've always been dedicated to God and country." Saying the last, he'd suck in his belly and salute with a tattooed hand.

  Although capable of speaking without swearing, Seaweed seldom did, and his speech was peppered with what Gab called potty-mouth.

  "Do you know the twelve basic kinds of farts?" Seaweed demanded the first time we met. After I confessed my ignorance, he rattled them off. "Recruit, remember these: the fizz, the fuzz, the fizzy fuzz; the blower, the bender, the binder, the blinder; the ripsnorter, the tear ass, the sneaker, the rattler; and the one that goes poooooh." The last he drew out like a long sigh.

  Such was his sense of humor. However, like many men who hadn't spent much time around women, Seaweed had an exaggerated sense of chivalry. Whenever a woman entered the store, he'd head outside so as not to chance offending her. Usually he'd take Skipper behind the icehouse and throw sticks until the customer had finished her business. His command to fetch was "Dead soldier!" since he'd been in innumerable Army-Navy bar brawls.

  His booming voice made Seaweed's gallant attempts ill fated. Although Seawood imagined he was beyond earshot, we could hear him swearing at the dog. "Fetch the stick, Skipper. Dead soldier! You sonofabitching seadog. Dead soldier! Miserable mutt."

  Even on hottest days, my instructions were to close the front door whenever Seaweed headed outside to avoid offending a woman customer.

  A little addlepated after years of booze and brawls, Seaweed never could grasp the idea I wasn't Jake's son. No matter how many times I explained, he always called me Little Jake.

  Gab's most recent promotional scheme involved a group called the Bitterwater Boys, who were scheduled at the Grange. Ticket sales had been slow and he was offering some free to the merchants who increased their radio advertising budgets. In turn, Gab claimed the merchants could lure customers with the tickets.

  "What do you say we go a hundred this month, Jake?" Gab had his receipt book in hand. "Twenty free tickets if you double your advertising dollars."
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  "Whatever happened to George Jones?" my uncle asked. "I remember you promised George and Tammy Wynette this year for sure."

  "That's blood under the bridge, Jake. You know when Jones didn't show, I almost lost my shirt. His agent said he had sinus problems."

  "Sure," Jake said. "Got his nose stuck in a whiskey bottle."

  Everybody laughed at that one.

  "Trust me. The Bitterwater Boys are skyrocketing. Now they're off the launch pad gaining speed. Pretty soon... whoosh!" He gestured toward the ceiling.

  "That group was on a USO tour," Seaweed said. "Called themselves the Bilgewater Boys back then." He ignored Gab's glare. "I should have stayed in the Navy. Bob Hope was actually on my ship. And Anita Bryant. But I tell you who might come to Gateway. Don Ho! He's related to Ace—shirttail cousin or something. On R and R in Honolulu, I climbed right up on the stage and sang with him." Seaweed closed his eyes. "Tiny bubbles ... in the wine."

  "You should have stayed in the Navy all right," Gab said. "We wouldn't have to worry so much about drowning in your bullshit around here."

  "Sounds like the pot calling the kettle black," Seaweed said. "At least I keep my bullshit confined to the room I'm in. But you're on every damn radio in town."

  "That's music to my ears, Seaweed." Gab grinned. "Sound promotion."

  "My wife says the Bitterwater Boys are pretty good," Buzzy said. "If Jake buys more ads, I'll take some free promotional tickets."

  Gab took a bite of Homer's bear claw. "What about it, Jake?"

  "You can sign me up for sixty if you promise to stop looking like your best friend stole your truck and dog but left the wife. Put some of those ad spots right before Paul Harvey."

  Gab brushed pastry flakes from his lap and nodded. "Sixty is small potatoes, but you got it."

  "Put me down for fifty, too," Homer said. "Better run them first thing in the morning. People don't buy doughnuts for dinner. And crank up the volume."

  Gab glanced at Buzzy, but he shook his head. "Not me. Crop dusting is all word of mouth. And if you're not good, you're dead."

  Gab nodded at Homer. "I'll stop by around two when you knock off and we'll work out the lingo." He seemed pretty cheerful. "I'm going to tell you boys something straight arrow. As soon as this concert's over, I'm chartering a bus to Reno. Take all my preferred customers for a spree."

  "Why go all the way to Reno?" Jake asked. "I can walk to Ace's."

  "Reno, the biggest little city of them all," Gab said, warming to the subject. "Bigger jackpots, better food, more scrumptious babes. They import women from California. Everyone knows California grows the world's best-looking women. And Reno has first-class entertainers. You think I could get Johnny Mathis to come to Ace's?"

  "Only if you told them Seaweed was singing along," Buzzy said, and everybody laughed.

  "No offense," Jake said. "But I wouldn't want to head to Reno with this bunch. I'd plan to cut a wide swath, and who needs wagging tongues later on."

  "At your age, a dragging tongue is more like it," Gab said. "But I'm lining a bus up anyway. Whether you want to tag along or not is your business." He stood. "Well, I got to go and look up some real customers. Gibb Morris at the Feed and Seed has deep pockets. Maybe he wants to move some fertilizer and garden hoses. I've never seen it this damn hot and dry."

  "I'm heading out that way, too," Buzzy said. "Can't jawbone all day. Got to get a couple hundred pounds of parathion."

  Seaweed cocked an eyebrow. "You got the crabs again?"

  "I've got to go out and talk to some of the ag boys about thrips," Buzzy said. "Those little varmints have been invading their carrots, but parathion should knock them for a loop.

  "Thrips?" Seaweed said. "I think I caught those one time in the Philippines. Tell the farmers to wash it good and piss quick."

  ***

  Mule Mullins, foreman at the Gateway Plywood Mill, also coached the Loggers, a league championship American Legion baseball team. When younger, Mule had played Double-A ball for the Tacoma Braves, and he entertained the back-room boys with dirty jokes and stories of his misadventures in Spokane, Portland, and Calgary. A fringe of orange hair peeked from beneath his green baseball cap, but when he removed the cap, he was almost bald. Mule stirred his coffee with a wide carpenter's pencil that seemed fragile in his large hands. His thick shoulders and lumpy wrists showed he'd spent early years pulling lumber on the green chain before he became night foreman.

  The Loggers kept an open charge account because Jake knew they were good for the bill at the beginning of each month. Mule purchased baseballs by the gross, bats by the dozen, and extra gloves, resin bags, and baseball shoes. He had convinced Hall Tangent, who owned the mill, that a winning team was top advertising, and Tangent spared no expense.

  With the building boom in Gateway and across the state, the mill ran twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. In front of the mill was what Mule called the biggest cold deck in the West, stacks of logs twenty feet high and deep enough to cover two football fields. At night, showers of sparks rose from the mill's wigwam scrap burners, turning the south end of town into a glowing Fourth of July display.

  "What with coaching and overtime, I'm going eighteen or twenty hours a day," Mule said. "I don't know how much more of this fun I can take."

  "Stop complaining," Jake said. "Cry all the way to the bank. I heard you beat Central pretty good. Sorry I was on the river."

  "It wasn't a close game," Mule said, "because I kept in my best pitcher. It's always fun to beat those snooty Central people. Especially a double-header."

  Mule owned a powder blue Ford pickup with stepside bumpers, and after the victory he drove through town, honking the horn. Ten or eleven cheering ballplayers rode in the bed or stood on the bumpers, waving brooms to show they'd swept Central.

  "We'll beat them in the tournament, too," Mule said, then yawned. "Unless I'm so tired from all the work I can't stand up to coach. Did you hear we got the plywood contract for Hollywood?"

  "No, but I figured you would," Jake said.

  "Gonna rebuild most of the reservation from what I hear. Hollywood is just the start. Tangent knows all the mucky-mucks on the tribal council. All the big-shot chiefs." Mule picked up a new baseball glove and slipped it on his hand. He squinted at the tag. "Pricey."

  "Kangaroo leather," Jake said. "Top quality."

  "Some of those featherheads complained about the plywood prices, but somebody's always grumbling on the reservation. The loggers think they get cheated at the scaling station." Mule pounded his fist into the glove pocket. "Anyway, we got the Hollywood contract but we can't get to it for six months. We're way behind on orders."

  "I'm glad they're rebuilding that eyesore," Jake said. "Floods got parts of it a couple times, but it really needs a bulldozer and torch." He chuckled. "You new ambulance guys will have to learn street numbers or something. When I was driving, they just said the purple house or the chartreuse place. Screwball colors."

  "We could sure use you to drive ambulance again," Mule said. "Some of the young volunteers don't know shit from Shinola."

  Jake shook his head. "I earned my twenty-year certificate. Those last runs got longer each time. We'd load some groaning guy in back while his poor kids watched, their scared faces pressed against the window. One of us stayed with him, while the other drove like hell, trying to beat death's door. And the miles stretched out. Gateway needs a hospital. Central's too damn far."

  Mule picked up one of the Spaulding baseballs and worked it into the glove. "I hate those Hollywood runs. Been inside a couple places you wouldn't believe. One had about five hundred empty Dinty Moore beef stew cans, and a scrawny cat for each can."

  "A lot of those people have pride," Jake said. "Just not much means."

  "Well, the tribe and BIA are building them all new houses," Mule said. "Indian fringe benefit. Of course, your taxes and mine are paying for those places. But at least I'll get a little back in overtime."

  "Don't forget to spend s
ome here," Jake said. "Cash makes no enemies."

  "Put this on the team's account." Mule tucked the glove and ball under his arm. "Hollywood," he muttered. "To most people it's the end of the rainbow. Around here, it's more like the end of the line."

  The Phoenix stood just beyond Gateway's northside city limits and featured a blinking neon bird that resembled a pheasant more than a phoenix. The restaurant served the best steaks in town, including a seventy-two-ounce porterhouse special, and what passed for Chinese food. Opaque Chinese lanterns with dangling red tassels hung from the light fixtures, and golden dragons adorned the walls. The Lucky Dragon Lounge featured twenty-five-cent beers and half-dollar well drinks during happy hour, double shots from six to eight. Dance bands played four nights a week, country and western and rock and roll getting equal billing.

  Ace Ho's Stardust Resort stood adjacent to the Phoenix and offered deluxe modern rooms and a giant outdoor pool. Everyone stayed at the Stardust, from construction engineers and dam inspectors to traveling salesmen. Those with a hankering for poker and blackjack found games of chance in the motel's back suites. I heard girls were available in some of the units.

  Ace Ho owned both places and was the biggest operator in town, except for Hall Tangent. Although his places were fancy, Ace himself kept a low profile. He had spent his teen years working on Hawaiian pineapple plantations, and he didn't have any fingerprints because the pineapple acid had eaten away the whorls of his skin. Rumors circulated about Ace's connections with Honolulu's racketeering and gambling, but no one actually knew where he got his start-up money.

  Occasionally, Ace came into the store to buy ammunition for the .32 automatic he carried. When he helped himself to coffee in the back room, the conversation lulled. Although almost fifty, he moved with the litheness of a jaguar and had the coldest blue-green eyes I'd ever seen. Jake called them iceberg eyes, claiming they were the exact color of the new icebergs calved from the glacial fields near Sitka.