Game of the Blues

by Kenn C. Kincaid

  They selected a table. A thirty-something waitress approached quickly. Her hair, blends of black and brown, was pulled back and obscured by a net. A pea green apron hung over a loose fitting cream princess dress. At around five-seven, and over 200, her attire camouflaged her build. She listed backwards and glided toward them like a geisha girl with a slight limp. All three travelers were mesmerized.

  “Might as well close ’em mouths ‘til you got y’ur food, fellars,” she said with a raspy voice.

  “We’d like some lunch,” Gary said.

  “What a coincidence. We be servin’ lunch. What’ll it be?”

  “We haven’t been given menus yet.”

  “Honey, y’u didn’t need help findin’ them seats did y’u?” the waitress asked rhetorically. “Menu’s in the napkin rack. Be back.” She turned to attend other tables.

  They found cards titled “LUNCH” listing burgers, sandwiches, and fish. As soon as they laid the cards on the table the unusual waitress reappeared, “Figur’ it out boys?”

  “Flo,” Dan began, reading her plastic nametag,” I think I’ll have a ham and beef double-decker, heavy mayo.”

  Not hearing an acknowledgement, Dan looked up. When he made eye contact with her expressionless face, she shook her head slightly, “Y’u sure on that?”

  “It’s between that and the fish sandwich?”

  “Fair pick, fish,” she replied hoarsely, unemotionally jotting on a pad.

  “With fries and a Coke.”

  Flo nodded and turned to the others, “and y’uns…”

  “I’d like the barbecue, and…” Gary stopping short noticing her turned up nose and squinching expression. “On second thought, I’ll do the fish sandwich and a Coke?” Gary said timidly. Noticing her slight agreeing nod he added, “Light tartar sauce?”

  “Honey, y’us bein’ new here, I’ll tell y’us. Words like small, little, light, and rare ain’t in Larr’s cookin’ book. I’ll fetch y’u a dab on the side.”

  Flo turned her attention to Rick.

  “I’ll have a cheeseburger with everything on it, and iced tea.”

  “You allergic to fish?”

  “No ma’am’, I just have a hunger for a burger, well done, thank you.”

  “Y’u’d, likely prefer med’um. Cooks it wit’ real fire.”

  “No, I believe I’ll be happy with well done.”

  Flo didn’t reply. She simply pivoted and made a beeline for the kitchen door, which seemed to open by her aura. “Two Fish special. One chee-burger, well, in a tux.”

  The doors slapped closed as she vanished.

  “What kind of fish you think it is?” Dan asked.

  “I don’t know.” Gary replied.

  “Probably ocean perch,” Rick suggested.

  Speaking of fish, look at this Fishing Report,” Gary pointed to an insert on the napkin holder.

  WALLEYE:

  LAST WEEK BOATS HAVE FOLLOWED LARGE SCHOOLS OF WALLEYE FROM WEST OF GREEN ISLAND INTO THE SOUTH PASSAGE. LIMITED SUCCESS FOR WALLEYE NOTED IN SHALLOW WATERS OF THE SHORELINE AND ROCK PILES AT LESS THAN 30 FEET. WATER IS STAINED BUT GOOD NEAR REEFS. TROLLERS AND DRIFTERS ARE TAKING LIMITS OF MIXED CLASS WALLEYE. LAST WEEK TROLLERS WITH COPPER AND GOLD STINGERS WITH LONG SOLID BAITS WORKED WELL. DRIFTERS AVERAGED FAIR CATCHES WITH SILVER/BLU/GOLD BLADED BOTTOM BOUNCERS AND 1 OZ LONG LINED GOLD BLADE HARNESSES.

  “I can’t wait to get at ’em,” Rich said.

  “Sounds like they’re still runnin’ hot and heavy,” Gary agreed.

  After awhile Flo floated toward them again. She carried a tray of drinks in her right hand, and plates of food balanced on her left arm. Flo sat the tray on the front of the table and handed the food orders to each without spilling a crumb.

  Rick inspected his order. “Excuse me, but my burger’s plain, and I didn’t order a side salad.”

  “Salad? Where y’u from? Ain’t no sal-ad. That’s y’ur fixin’s. Sauce ’s on the table.”

  “Oh, sorry,” Rick lifted the lettuce to find onion, tomato, cheese, bean sprouts, pickles, and a dab of mayo.

  The half-pound mounded hamburger hung off the bun and with all the trimmings was two inches high. The cornbread dusted fish fillets dwarfed hoagie buns.

  “This fish is thicker ‘an your wallet,” Gary mumbled through a mouthful, “This is the place.”

  “I’ll second it,” Dan agreed. “How’s the burger, Rick?”

  Rick’s face showed regret. “It’s rather dry. The chef’s definition of well done is cremation.”

  “Y’u likely me’nt med’um,” Gary mimicked with a chuckle.

  Flo showed up, as if ‘med’um’ was her cue, “That burger done enough, sweetie?”

  “Yes ma’am, perfect.” Rick answered.

  She wiggled her nose, left the refills, and sailed away.

  The threesome finished eating, and hurried for the dock. The last headboats shoved off at two o’clock. Two boats, Reel-M-In and Yank-M-Up,operated by the same company were loading as they approached the peer.

  “Which one?” Gary asked.

  “I’m seeing gold thing-a-ma-bobs on ‘Yank-M,’ and blue doodads on ‘Reel-M.’ If the fishing report means anything,” Dan said.

  “Well, Rick, you’re the scientist. Which one?”

  “Five pennies to a nickel. I suspect both captains have an assortment of baits.”

  “All-a-board!” sounded a hearty voice as a bell clanged.

  “Yank, has fewer heads,” Gary noted.

  The threesome crossed the gangplank handing the deck hand twenty dollars. A thin but muscular young man, very tan, cleared the gangplank, and pulled in the mooring rope. The barge churned away from the dock.

  Not too impressive,” Dan considered. Basic barge with a cabin. Maybe twenty-five foot across and twice as long. Big row of coolers behind these benches, must expect to catch something. Whatever, it’s not crowded with eighteen people. A colorful looking bunch. Wonder if I look as ridiculous to them?

  Gunwales rose two feet high off the deck with a baluster extending another foot. Every six feet, tubing supported the canvas overhead. Rolled side-curtains were tied at the top. Two-thirds forward was a small cabin with more electronic equipment than a destroyer.

  There’s the heart of this floating surrey. If there’s fish in this pond, he ought to be able to find it.

  “Might as well settle in,” Gary suggested. “It’ll be awhile ‘fore we wet a line.”

  “Settle in? My cheeks are tingling already,” Dan commented rubbing his buttocks.

  “Be numb soon.”

  Things were quiet, outside of the engine.

  What am I gonna do with all this fish I catch?

  Soon the captain throttled back and the deckhand’s shrill whistle caught their attention.

  “Your attention please, everybody calls me ‘Squish’. The Coast Guard requires…”

  He then recited numerous safety requirements showing life vest locations ending with, “Should the boat sink.” Most gave it less mindfulness than scratching an itch.

  “As for the fishing,” Squish continued regaining their attention. “The limit on Walleye is six and keepers must be over eighteen inches. Yellow Perch it’s nine, and White Bass seven. When you land one, me or Billy-Bob will help you remove, measure, tag, and store the keepers in the coolers.

  “We’ll start on blue and red willospoons with minnows. They were hittin’ ’em heavy this mornin’. If they’re runnin’ deeper, you can choose ‘tween, lime green, or a pink and gold Slo-pokes. Your choice of minnow or worm trailers. We’ll help chang the lures, but this is a headboat not a nursery and you bait your own hooks.” He walked to an equipment rack and sorted fishing rods, handing them to those who needed them. Most had their own.

  Then the quivering deck stilled, as the engines faded sounding more like Dan’s Harley idling. The anglers sprang to the gunwales like horses loosed by the Preakness gate. Dan was nudged forward where Rick claimed a portion of the starboard railing al
ongside the cabin.

  “Cap says there’s Walleye at twenty-three feet,” yelled Squish, “and we’re driftin’ with ’em. Billy-Bob’s goin’ forward, I’ll stay aft.”

  Twenty-three feet don’t help. There’s no marking on this line.

  Dan lowered the bait to the water line he estimated at ten feet, and tied a knot in it. He lowered the knot to the water to tie another, but a deep rough voice stopped him.

  “Hey mate, you knottin’ up my rig. Just let ‘er fall. Slow count to fifteen. Light jerk, three times, and pull ’im in.”

  Dan turned and saw the captain leaning out the cabin door staring through him. “Yes, Sir.” Count of fifteen.right! But, I’ll play along. He’ll go about his business. played the line out as the captain watched. One–two–three—– fifteen—jerk–jerk – jerk. I don’t feel any fish! peeked over his shoulder. Still watching. Okay, I’ll reel it in. You go play with your gadgets. in, the pole flexed and at the surface a big fish broke the water.

  “I can’t lift it in!”

  “Net coming!” Billy-Bob called out.

  “Still doubting, mate?” The captain said retreating into his cabin grinning.

  Billy-Bob bounced over the coolers like an Olympic hurdle runner. Leaning over the rail he scooped the fish into a net and brought it on board. “Fine catch.” He placed the measure to its tail. “Twenty nine and three quarters, this is the catch to beat!”

  They maneuvered between spots and switched baits for another two hours before the wind picked up, and the clouds darkened. The headboat took the waves well, but tossing waves made the fishing difficult, and few were caught. Nevertheless, the captain respected paying anglers and stayed at it to the last feasible minute.

  When the sprinkles began, the captain turned the vessel for port. The storm came like a cattle stampede. Within minutes, the full force of the gale buffeted them. The deck hands lowered the side curtains limiting the drenching spray.

  Gary and Rick sat on Dan’s left. Unconcerned they watched the pelting wind ripple patterns in the side curtains. A white haired woman in her late fifties clenching her teeth hung to the bench with white knuckles and fearful eyes.

  “These storms seem worse than they are,” Dan encouraged her.

  She did not reply.

  “Captain’s, a good man, and this barge is well built for rugged water. Waves can wet us down, but they won’t sink us.”

  Dan’s assurance wasn’t authoritative enough. She stood and clamping onto anything along the way, the woman slowly inched her way forward to the cabin.

  “Hey Lady! SIT DOWN!” Squish’s cries were muffled by the storm.

  A death grip on the door rail, her body braced in the frame, she screamed at the captain, “We going to make it!”

  “Won’t be long to shore. You need to take your seat.”

  She hung in the doorframe with the tenacity of a snapping turtle, bouncing back and forth with the waves. The captain slid the back window open and yelled, “Squish! Get her in a seat!”

  Bobbing and swaying, Squish navigated to the cabin, “You have to sit. You’ll be safe there.”

  Again the woman addressed the busy captain, “The boat’s going to sink, isn’t it?”

  The captain’s patience thinned by the storm was emptied. “Lady, how’ should I know! Never been in such a blow.”

  “OH, God save us!”

  “Squish! Sit her down ‘fore she falls overboard!”

  Squish pried the gasping woman free and returned her to the seat next to Dan.

  “You can see the shore! Look! There’s the Marblehead’s beacon on the canvas,” Dan pointed. “We’re almost in!”

  She nodded with a trace of a smile, but remained rigid until they docked. It was slow crossing the gangplank and bucking peer with the catch. Their feet on land, they stood gathering their bearings.

  “Let’s run this catch to the cleaners,” Gary suggested. “It’s worth twenty-two cents a pound to have them do it.”

  Standing waterlogged in a downpour, cleaning fish was the last thing any wanted to consider. They crossed the street to the warehouse. A sign on the door read:

  Sandusky Fish Co.

  You catchum - We cleanum.

  Enter door on bay side.

  They went in. The fish were weighed and set aside for processing. They would pick them up later filleted, packaged and frozen. They agreed and paid for the order. When they exited, the rain had stopped, but not the wind. Seeing Ginger’s Galley open, Dan headed for it. The others followed him. The door didn’t close before they were greeted by a familiar voice. “Hold on thar mates. Ye be floodin’ the bilges. Ain’t you got no slickers?”

  “Sorry,” Dan apologized, “we got caught in…”

  “N’ery y’u mind dem tales less’n dey fatal, we heard ’em a’fore. Just stand to!”

  She hurried into the kitchen storage. Her short legged heavy frame rocked like their boat ride. None of them knew what she expected. Hoping they’d be welcomed, they stood dripping.

  Shortly she reappeared pushing a wheeled bucket by the inserted mop handle. Slung over her shoulders were a dozen terry cloth towels which she distributed among them.

  “Sop da spate out of y’ur duds.” Then pointing to the section on the right said, “We serve drown’d sea dogs in there.”

  Regardless of her sandpaper voice and abrupt manor, her smile and eyes welcomed. They squeezed as much water out of their clothes as they could and slid into the first booth. Flo danced the mop over the puddles.

  “I was thinking of take out,” Rick whispered.

  “Tell Flo you’re doing take out?” Gary snorted. “Your brain wash overboard?”

  “I’m with you,” Dan agreed, “I don’t want the mop used on me.”

  “I’ll leave a healthy tip,” Rick reconsidered.

  They found the evening menus in the napkin rack, and Dan reviewed the choices. “What you suppose is good here?”

  “Everythin’ comin’ out of m’ galley’s good, mate,” Flo’s hoarseness announced.

  Oh great, no telling what’ll happen to my order now! He looked up. “Indeed, we ate lunch here. The fish sandwiches were delicious. I wondered what could be better.”

  “So y’u wanna fish sandwich?”

  “No, no, I’m wondering what your specialty might be?”

  “There it is,” she said pointing to the card. “Sea water stingin’ y’ur eyes, eh? Friday’s ‘Cunt-er-y’ Steak, and comes wit’ mashed ‘tators, an’ mixed veggies.”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “I recon ‘u pick sometin’ y’u got a hankerin’ fer.”

  “I know, but, what’s your favorite on the menu?”

  “Larry do a real fine rib-eye, wit’ a baked ‘tattor, and greens,” she replied with a motherly smile as her tongue raced across her lips.

  “I’ll have it—‘me-de-um’.”

  Since Flo made no sign of disapproval, Gary figured it was the most reasonable response, “I’ll have the same—‘me-de-um’.”

  “Good idea,” Rich said, “medium, please medium.”

  “Larr’ only cooks ’em one way. Unless some fool says otherwise.”

  They exchanged quick glances and replied, “Sounds perfect.”

  Flo turned and scurried off to the kitchen.

  “Rick, I think you’re getting on her good side,” Dan chuckled.

  “Better hope Larr’s ‘one way’ isn’t well done,” Rick laughed.

  While they waited for their orders, they talked casually of the day’s adventures. The time passed quickly and a lanky fellow delivered the food efficiently.

  Cooked to “good” turned out to be medium, juicy, slight trace of pink, and flavorful. The potato came loaded and double baked. It left their palettes begging more. The spinach was splashed with acerbic vinegar sweetened by a hint of honey and mustard.

  “The food here is such an adventure,” Gary remarked. “You never know what you’ve ordered, and it comes out anything but pl
ain.”

  They left behind the eatery, their hunger, and the rain. Soon they were dry, changed, and settled in the cottage. They split a box of stove matches, and played Texas Hold ’em. In twenty minutes Rick had all the matches.

  “Glad I wasn’t playing for money,” Gary said flipping on the television. Adjusting the rabbit ears, he discovered the programming limited and the reception worse. “I’m worn out, anyway.”

  “I haven’t managed much sleep, either,” Dan agreed. “I’m with you.”

  “To each his own,” Rich said. “It’s only nine and I’ve some research papers I need work on.”

  Two hours later they were all asleep.

  Rick was first to rise, and had coffee perking, and bacon frying by six. Dan lingered between sleep and wakefulness visualizing every villain of his career walking out of jail. Some judge ordered the prisons opened. Wham! Bang! Clang! Rick’s drumming of a metal spoon on a pan dragged Dan down the corridors of his dream frantically slamming doors shut before inmates escaped.

  Gary woke in time to join Rick watch Dan fight the imaginary villains. Dan lay in the crack of the doubled mattresses fighting the sheet as if it were an octopus. Gary grabbed the corner of the sheet yanking it clear.

  “Wake up, Dan! Fish are biting! Let’s go!”

  The familiar voice cut through Dan’s delusion. He sat up between the two mattresses wearing his Fruit of the Looms. A look of embarrassment paraded across his face. He didn’t speak, and neither did they. He sat for a few seconds.

  “What chamber of horrors were you lost in?” Rick asked.

  “Trust me, you don’t want to know,” Gary answered.

  Rick dropped the matter. “Eggs and bacon in ten!”

  They ate with little talk. Gary showered while Dan did “KP” and Rick played maid. Ready, they headed out to find their charter, The Sandpiper, but all were unaware they would find much more.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Fishing for Truth

  “Unlike headboats, with a charter we can be fashionably late,” Gary noted.

  ‘The Sandpiper’ was lettered in gold script on the stern board of the Owens Express twin cabin cruiser. A long aft deck led into the galley cabin, which supported the higher pilot’s cabin leaving ample foredeck. She rode proudly on the water displaying twin exhaust ports, white plank sides, and short gunnels extended with brass stanchions and white ropes into a bow rail. On the starboard aft deck was a tall, yet stout, man loading gear.