The real problem is that this was not an isolated act of vandalism—not a one-hit wonder, if you will. It happened three times previously, with each successive assault featuring an increased number of ova defacing my place of repose, musing, and creative ideation. After the second occurrence, a friend suggested that I install some sort of monitoring device in hopes of identifying the offenders, should they get up to their nefarious nighttime shenanigans yet again. Purchasing equipment to identify criminals is not the kind of thing that occupies my imagination, but desperate times call for measures of commensurate desperation. With earnings from my newfound career in the world of lighter-than-air locomotion, I purchased, installed, and connected a discreet night-vision camera facing the direction of the unknown egg hurlers, aka the street. The upshot of all this effort was that the fourth assault did not go unrecorded. That is why you see links to short videos I have attached below this communiqué. Most importantly, the camera captured the license plate of the vehicle the perpetrators used to transport themselves and their ovate ammunition. I thought you should at least know about this as an unsightly attack on the observatory affects the value of the property in its entirety.
Thank you for taking time to read this. I wish you travels sans travails and continued professional preeminence.
Yours in domiciliary vigilance,
Merlin
He inhaled and exhaled deeply, then clicked Send.
• Eighteen
Days passed and Merlin did not hear from Mickey. He had steeled himself and tried to keep a stiff upper lip. And then late one weekday evening, like a lightning bolt from a capricious minor deity, a response from Mickey arrived. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief when he saw the message in his inbox. The subject line read: “Sorry about delayed response.”
Hey Merlin:
Sorry I’m slow to respond—got a new project in Amsterdam.
So, this egging by night business is the real thing, right? Quite disturbing and warranting action. Frankly, viewing the videos from the most recent incident caused a major rise in my blood. As soon as we can synch up on schedules with the Houston-to-Holland time difference, I’m going to call a friend in the Harris County DA’s office so we can get a fix on the bad guys. This kind of renegade, continual vandalism, as they say in the merry old country across the North Sea from me, is just “not cricket.” And beyond not being good form, in point of fact, it is criminal, right? Very sorry about the distress all this has caused you. I am on the case.
Best,
Mickey
Although Mickey’s writing style never conveyed the warmest of filial sentiment, his e-mail was a prompt and sympathetic reply to Merlin’s plea, and that was enough to cause a wave of comfort to wash over the distraught eggee. Additionally, Mickey’s willingness to enlist the help of a prosecutor friend in the district attorney’s office gave Merlin the sense that the tide could actually be turning in his favor as the justice system might soon power up its big fine-grinding wheels on his behalf. This thought was enough to elicit a deep exhalation and simultaneous upswelling of weariness. He shambled toward his bed and lay down thinking of what he once heard a country preacher call the sleep of the justified. “That must be one of the more satisfying forms of sleep there is,” he mumbled, before his eyelids closed and he began to snore.
It was a red-letter day at the blimp base, as a cross-country run was on the agenda. The flight plan was to take the Airmadillo over downtown and then straight toward the coast in the direction of Galveston Island. The winds were very light throughout the area, even along the coast, where they had been known to play havoc with the blimp. Calm also prevailed at the base, where the whole team had settled into a smoothly operating routine, notwithstanding Dirk Kajerka’s pushing of the envelope with his clandestine amatory exploits with Svetlana. The grounds and mechanical crew took note that marketing director Sukhova had not inspected the facility with her raised eyebrow in quite some time, and those who had been at FUBAR long enough knew her extended absences were a sign of workplace tranquility and a harbinger of stress-free days until the arrival of the next fiasco they had learned would surely manifest itself at this most idiosyncratic of workplaces.
Merlin was ahead on all of his office tasks and was grateful to get the nod to go on the trip. At midmorning the trio of lighter-than-airgonauts cruised above Buffalo Bayou along Allen Parkway and crossed the odd thicket of steel and glass perpendicularity that was downtown Houston as they looked toward the ship channel and the flapjack-flat coastal plain before Galveston Bay and the Gulf of Mexico.
They skirted the suburbs around NASA and the embarrassingly misnamed Clear Lake. Captain Kajerka then set a course for downtown Galveston. After making a few circles above the area, he turned to the passenger area and made an announcement: “Okay, team, this is a big day of flying, and y’all are getting to see the ship really put through her paces, but on top of that, I’ve got a treat in store.”
He raised his mirrored Ray-Bans with a thumb and forefinger and barely winked at Svetlana. “I figured we’d all deserve a break after a morning of flying, so I accepted the invitation of an old friend on Bolivar who’s invited us by for lunch.”
“Lunch!” Merlin exclaimed with unfiltered exuberance.
“That’s right, big fella, a real Gulf Coast throw down, complete with an old-school fisherman’s platter.”
Merlin’s eyes grew wider, and he jumped into the swim of the conversation.
“A fisherman’s platter! I love fisherman’s platters! I used to eat them down the coast with my grandfather during my childhood and adolescence.”
While Merlin became as glassy-eyed as a freshly caught grouper on ice in anticipation of this culinary relic of simpler times, Dirk made a hard left with the rudder, and the Airmadillo began to turn toward the Bolivar Peninsula. Merlin’s thoughts began to shift toward Bolivar, too, as he considered how its southern end was almost completely wiped out during Hurricane Ike. The negative vortex at its most savage, he mused. Vexed about arrival logistics, Merlin queried the captain, “But where will we land?!”
“Got that under control, professor. There are some big concrete bulkheads with heavy rebar loops in the salt grass next to the parking lot, right across from the restaurant and marina. I think they’re left over from World War II. And they’ve got plenty of heavy-gauge marine line to tie us down.”
“Ha!” Svetlana offered tersely at the utterance of “tie us down.” “In my country, fisherman’s platter was maybe head of counter-revolutionary fisherman on platter during visit of Stalin to Crimea.”
Dirk nosed the Airmadillo downward toward its noonday resting spot near the parking lot in front of Stangaroo’s marina and restaurant. Helpers were already in place on the ground to secure the blimp during this unusually calm seaside day. With the Airmadillo moored, the trio made their way up the outdoor stairway to the restaurant’s entry a good fifteen or twenty feet above ground. They turned right after passing the host’s station and were met with the untempered glee of owner Constantine (Tino) Smakaporpous, a Dionysian ray of Texas Gulf Coast Greek-American sunshine.
“Dirkie!” Tino exclaimed.
“Hey, Tino! How’s tricks?”
“Better all the time. Come on. I got the best table ready for us.”
Dirk introduced Svetlana and Merlin to Tino, who gave Dirk a sidelong wink after meeting Svetlana. They arrived at the table overlooking the intracoastal canal where a couple of Smakaporpous’s friends were already seated. More introductions followed as they sat down and a server arrived to take drink orders.
“I know you’re flyin’ today, but I gotta tell you we got a new local beer we found that goes perfect with seafood,” Tino offered.
Dirk jumped right in. “Hey, a couple o’ brews never hurt anyone.” Then, with a cartoonish look around the table, “As long as we’re friends here and it doesn’t leave the table!”
This bit of cringe-worthy buffoonery elicited guffaws from Tino and his friends, and lunch wa
s soon underway. Iced gulf shrimp cocktails with remoulade and horseradish-y cocktail sauce and plates of lemon halves in fine meshed netting led the way. The shrimp clung to the rims of each of the cocktail glasses, and Merlin went to work on his using the little seafood fork with clinical efficiency, stabbing each jumbo crustacean at the perfect spot in its deveined back to ensure maximum stability before its plunge into either the remoulade or cocktail sauce as his parted lips quivered in anticipation. As he relished each bite, he wished for his smock, but that thought fled as he fixated on the arrival of the next course—cups of gumbo with morsels of fresh seafood suspended in a smooth perfectly executed glistening dark roux.
Dirk was owning his role of gallivanting entertainer-in-chief as Tino and his friends encouraged him. “Tell the one about the geese following you!” Tino beckoned, and Dirk launched into another theatrical recounting. Everyone was playing into Dirk’s hand—everyone except Merlin. While the group laughed more loudly a creeping concern worked its way up his spine, and as it reached the nape of his neck, he noticed the wind had picked up and the flags at the marina began to whip vigorously. He looked at East Bay beyond the marina and the intracoastal and registered that it was getting choppy, with white caps beginning to emerge here and there like dollops of meringue atop a churning, unpleasantly green dessert.
Three big oval plates constituting the fisherman’s platters for six arrived and were set in the middle of the table. They were piled with mounds of fried fin fish and shellfish along with crab cakes and oysters Rockefeller on their own bed of rock salt. From the bay system there was redfish, speckled trout, and flounder. From the Gulf there was red snapper, ling (called cobia in Florida), and dorado (called mahi mahi in Hawaii and dolphin in Texas by the old-timers). In former days, the platters would perhaps have included gar, but with city folk and the massive influx of people from other parts of the country finding their way to traditional Gulf Coast restaurants (called inns) out-of-town diners began to avoid the gar when they found out what it was. Tino squeezed mesh-covered lemon halves over all of it in a kind of priestly, ritualistic fashion and opened his palms to his guests, signaling it was time for them to dig in. Svetlana seemed to be confounded at the sheer volume of fried, baked, sautéed, and grilled gifts from the sea, but Merlin was in his element and loaded his plate.
Watching Merlin, Tino offered, “Hey man, take as much as you like! The food keeps coming ‘til everybody’s full!” Dirk shot Tino a concerned look, but the proprietor of Stangaroo’s didn’t see it as he continued to hold court.
“And how ’bout you, little lady? Did they have anything like this back in the old country?”
Svetlana just shook her head in awe and said, “Never have I seen such a feast. Not at Caspian Sea, not on Gulf of Finland, not even in Crimea.”
“That’s right,” Tino said, “and do you know why? Because everything is bigger in Texas, and Texas eats bigger than anywhere else in the world!” All the men except for Merlin broke out in hearty laughter, buoying up Tino on his sea of homespun bonhomie.
The group had been enjoying the feast for a good half hour when a waiter arrived tableside, leaned over, and whispered something in Tino’s ear. When the waiter had finished the message, the wattage behind Tino’s already bright presence increased, imparting an even higher degree of luminescence to his jovial visage. Tino whispered something back to the waiter, who nodded and gave him a “Yes, sir” before leaving the table. Raising his palms, Tino spread his arms out above the table, signaling that conversation should stop.
“Okay, folks,” Tino announced, “have I got a treat for you!”
Svetlana perked up and paid attention. Merlin released the piece of snapper he was dredging through a white-wine lemon-butter caper sauce on one of the big platters.
Dirk said, “Okay! Whatchoo got, Teen-areen-o?”
“We just got a delivery of some beautiful local oysters. We’re at the tail end of the season, but the water’s still cool enough that they’re sweet and prime to eat. But that’s not the biggest news. One of the coast’s legendary oyster bar tenders arrived a little earlier than planned. Seeing this man work is like watching a ballet of hands, knives, and shells.”
Merlin forgot his concern for the weather and focused on Smakaporpous as fresh raw oysters were on his list of some of the most exquisite things in life and getting to watch them opened by a seasoned expert was a rare feast for his eyes. “So,” said Tino as he turned his hands upward, “shall we go to the bar?”
The group agreed, rose from the table, and walked to the bar at the front of the restaurant. Merlin brought up the rear and cast a regretful eye toward the big spoonful of sauce-drowned snapper he left behind on the platter. His melancholy vanished when he saw that two thin rectangular slabs of what looked to be marble had been placed at the fore part of the bar, covering the lower part of the L that it made.
Behind the bar was a tall, thin black man whose air of authority was reinforced by an exquisitely pressed white apron tied securely behind his back. Next to him was a smaller, younger man ready to do his bidding. Tino sat at the corner of the bar, his two buddies to his left. This put Smakaporpous in the optimal position to greet incoming restaurant patrons while holding court with his guests.
To his right, down the short base of the L, were Dirk, Svetlana, and Merlin, in that order. Merlin was seated next to a small window through which he could see the blimp. He also noticed two large margarita machines behind the bar and various drink names etched in garish multicolors on a chalkboard behind them. The one that really caught his eye read “Stangaroo’s—Home of the Juggarita!” Next to it was a cartoonish drawing of a couple of glass jugs in an oblong bucket on ice whose contents were electric lime green, the international signifying color for frozen margaritas. He then noticed behind the bar a very buxom young woman in a low-cut T-shirt bearing the same images that read “Ask me about my Juggaritas!”
Tino’s bar-side speech began again, snapping Merlin’s attention back toward the group’s host. Tino extended his left arm in the direction of the man behind the bar and announced, “Okay, folks, I want you all to know Charles Bouchard. He’s a legendary oyster bar tender, and he’s here to do a little demonstration for us.”
Bouchard nodded to the assembled group and made eye contact with each diner, but he did not smile as he was focused on preparation to practice his art. He motioned to his assistant, who provided small ramekins of horseradish-y cocktail sauce for each diner. He also placed bottles of Worcestershire sauce and Louisiana hot pepper sauce within each diner’s reach, along with freshly cut wedges of lemon. Bouchard looked at his assistant and said in a flat commanding voice, “Mediums.” The assistant began to pick medium-size oysters right from the bushel sack and place them on the marble in front of the master. Each oyster was turned so Bouchard could make the quickest possible work of them, which he did with blindingly fast precision. He perfectly opened each oyster in what seemed like no more than a couple of seconds and used his oyster knife to detach the muscle from the bottom shell before sliding the half-shell-bearing oysters, one by one, to Svetlana first and then to the men.
Now Tino was holding court in full, not only presiding over the bar at the corner of the L but also serving as a glad-hander for arrivals at Stangaroo’s entry, greeting each group with his signature hail-fellow-well-met bon vivance. With great flourish, he announced to the group, “Y’all are experiencing something very few people get to. And watch out! Charles is as quick with a joke as he is with that oyster knife.”
Bouchard shook his head quizzically in mock skepticism as he stayed focused on the oysters.
“I’m thinking about making this a reservations-only thing,” Tino said, “and calling the experience ‘A Boatload o’ Bolivar Bivalves Featuring Charles Bouchard, the Oyster Slayer!’”
Bouchard gave Tino a you-can’t-be-serious look and went back to work with an incredulous wince.
Dirk showed Svetlana how to eat oysters in the style of the r
egion—no fancy thin mignonette sauces here—first squirting a few drops of lemon onto the oyster, then sliding it onto a saltine cracker and topping it with cocktail sauce and one drop of Louisiana hot sauce. He adjured her with a roguish mustache twitch: “You have to eat it in one bite.”
“No problem,” she replied with a smirk and opened wide to down the sauced, mollusk-topped cracker.
The others accepted their first oysters and each exclaimed in turn how wonderful they were. Merlin was transfixed as Bouchard slid him a slightly larger, but perfectly formed oyster with the statement “Now this man looks like an oyster eater.” Indeed Merlin was, as he dispatched oyster after oyster in the time-honored fashion Dirk had demonstrated to Svetlana. Nevertheless, he continued to glance out the window across the parking lot at the blimp. Its nose began to bounce more and more as the gusts grew stronger and more frequent. Unusually for Merlin, after putting away his first dozen oysters, he became less and less interested in them and more distracted as the Airmadillo bobbed more wildly in the wind.
The rest of the group, however, had refocused on Dirk as he continued with story after story at Tino’s urging. A group of sport fishermen, most with necks burnished red after a morning on the bay, entered the restaurant, and Tino went back into jovial greeting mode. The men were fat, squat, and wearing shorts, water shoes, hi-tech fishing shirts, and ball caps or Florida fisherman hats with ear and neck flaps and sunglasses with a strap connecting each of the temple bars to one another around their thick napes.
Svetlana was dealing with a petite oyster Bouchard had sent her way when she saw there were no more Saltines. She nudged Dirk and said, “We don’t have any more of these.” Dirk forthwith looked up at Bouchard and said, “Charles, we don’t have any crackers.” In mock theatricism, Bouchard looked at Dirk and Tino and his friends with dubious wide-open eyes and then dramatically scanned the newly arrived fishermen behind Tino with the same theatrical eyes before locking Tino and Dirk in his view and offering, “Oh yes, we do!” This oyster-knife jab of a quip caused Dirk and Tino to double over in uncontrollable waves of laughter, and when Tino caught his breath he said to Dirk, “See! I told you so!” And then they began a new round of their laughing fit.
Merlin of the Magnolias Page 11