The Maine Events

by Rodney Riesel

  Ten minutes later Allen was awakened again. He raised his head to look through the window. He couldn't see anyone.

  “Yeah?” he hollered.

  “It's Jacob … from downstairs.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I have your dog.”

  Allen looked around the room. Frankie was nowhere in sight.

  “What?”

  “I said, I have your dog.”

  That's right, Allen recalled, I took the dog out last night … or this morning. What time was that?

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Are you holding him for ransom?” Allen asked jokingly.

  “No.” Then there was a long pause as the drunkard climbed to his feet. Just as Allen put his hand on the knob, Jacob asked, “How much would you pay if I was?”

  Allen snorted. “A gajillion dollars.” He opened the door.

  “You look like crap,” said Jacob.

  “You're short, and you've got a big pimple on your forehead.”

  “You have bags under your eyes.”

  “You look like Jay Leno's illegitimate daughter, with that long hair and underbite.”

  Jacob laughed. “You're a dick.”

  “I know.”

  Jacob handed Allen Frankie's leash, and Frankie trotted into the room.

  “Where'd you find him?”

  “He was sitting over there on the sidewalk barking at the seagulls.”

  Allen looked down at the dog. “What did I tell you about that?” he asked. He returned his attention to Jacob. “Is there a store close by?”

  “What kind of store?”

  “Like a grocery store or something.”

  “There's a grocery store on US1.”

  “Anything closer?”

  “There's one of those Something Farms gas stations about a mile from here.”

  “Cumberland Farms?”

  “Yeah, that's it.”

  “Is that too far for you to ride your skateboard?”

  “Why?”

  “I need a few things.”

  “How much?”

  “Soda, aspirin, chips.”

  “I mean, how much you giving me?”

  “Ten bucks.”

  “To ride a mile on a skateboard, how about twenty?”

  “How about fifteen?”

  “Okay.”

  “I'll make a list.”

  Allen opened one of his notebooks and ripped out a sheet of paper. He grabbed a pen and made a list. On the list was a two-liter bottle of Coke, a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, aspirin, and a couple bottles of water. He reached into his pocket, grabbed his money clip, and counted out fifteen dollars, plus another fifteen for the items on the list. He handed Jacob the money and the list.

  “Is that too many items?” Allen asked.

  “No,” Jacob replied. “My mom's driving over there in a few minutes anyway, I'll just ride over with her.”

  “I thought you were riding your skateboard.”

  “No, I just wanted you to fork over the fifteen bucks.”

  “Now I'm glad I called you Leno's daughter.”

  “And I'm glad I called you a dick, so we're even.” Jacob turned and walked away.

  Allen shut the door. “Kinda surprised he didn't make me pay a ransom for ya, Frankie.”

  Frankie jumped up on the bed and laid down. Allen sat down beside him.

  “How long were you out there, pal?” Allen scratched the dog's head. “Sorry about that.” He glanced over at the bottle of tequila on the nightstand, and then at the empty rum bottle on the floor. “That was supposed to last the whole two weeks—one bottle per week. Now I have to make one bottle last for the rest of the time I'm here.”

  Allen did the math in his head. Let's see, that's seventeen shots in a bottle. He went to the sink and plugged in the coffee pot. I've got thirteen days left. In a wicker basket he found two filtered coffee pouches—one regular, and one decaf. That's two drinks on the weekends, and one drink on the weekdays. He tore open the regular package and placed it in the filter tray. Rationing sucks. He filled the four serving coffee pot with water, dumped it into the back of the coffee maker, and hit the power button. A minute later water was running through the filter into the pot, and the aroma of fresh coffee filled the room. Allen took a deep breath. If I don't drink today, I can have two tomorrow.

  In the bathroom, Allen brushed his teeth and splashed cold water on his face and through his short, dirty blond hair. He stared into the mirror.

  Red, white, and blue eyes, he thought.

  He splashed a few more handfuls of cold water on his face and the back of his neck. He returned to the bedroom, changed his clothes, and poured himself a cup of coffee.

  He carried the coffee to the table and set it next to his laptop.

  I can't write with a headache like this. “Shall we walk down to the seawall, Frankie?”

  Frankie leapt off the bed and ran to the door.

  “Movin' a little quicker today, dog. This place just take some gettin' used to? I'll tell ya what, I'll bring the leash, but I won't put it on you unless you start chasing those birds. We got a deal?” Frankie wagged his tail. “A wag is as good as a wink to a hungover writer.”

  Allen picked up his coffee mug and grabbed his cell phone off the nightstand, and together he and Frankie walked downstairs and across the parking lot.

  “Looks like I missed the sunrise, Frankie.” Allen reached into the pocket of his shorts and took out his cell phone. “What time was the sunrise this morning?” he asked the phone.

  Today, the sun rose at 5:58 a.m.

  “Missed it by a long shot. What time does the sunrise tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow, the sun will rise at 6:00 a.m.

  “What's the weather tomorrow?”

  Tomorrow’s forecast for York Beach is 87 and partly sunny.

  Allen slid the cell back into his pocket. “I'll have to set my alarm so we can get out here and see the sun come up.”

  The two friends crossed the street, hopped the curb, and stood atop the seawall. It was Monday morning, and the seawall construction was once again underway. It was around ten minutes until low tide. The water was now about a hundred yards from the base of the seawall. Allen sat down, and Frankie plopped down next to him. A robin landed five feet from Frankie and pecked at a dried up worm. The dog looked at the bird, and then back at the water.

  “Good boy,” said Allen. “How cold ya think that water is?”

  Allen sipped his coffee and placed the mug on the concrete next to him. He glanced over at the construction workers. There was a man operating the backhoe and three men setting forms. One guy was looking through a transit at a story pole held by another man. Based on his obscenity-laced shouts and impatient pointing, Allen judged the man with one hand set cockily on his hip to be the boss. They all wore orange vests and hard hats. The sawhorses remained in the same place, but the yellow plastic tape had been removed to allow the workers to enter and exit the worksite.

  “I wonder if they have bouncy balls at Cumberland Farms?” Allen put his arm around his dog's neck. “I forgot all your toys.”

  Frankie turned his head and licked the side of Allen's face.

  “Jesus, dog! Did you eat a shit sandwich for breakfast?” Allen wiped the saliva from his face. “Crap, I didn't tell Jacob to get you any dog food. Looks like it'll be water and Doritos for breakfast.”

  Allen downed the rest of his coffee and stood. “Come on.” He walked down the steps and navigated his way across the rocks trying his best not to twist an ankle. When he reached the sand, he bent down to pick up the stick he'd spotted from the seawall.

  “If I throw this stick, and you don't go get it, I'm not throwing it again. Ya got me?”

  Allen heaved the stick as hard as he could, and Frankie took off after it.

  “Get that stick!” Allen shouted.

  Frankie clamped his jaws onto the stick and ran back to Allen, dropping it at his feet.

  “What a
good boy.”

  Allen threw the stick another ten or twelve times before Frankie finally tired of the game. The last time he threw it, Frankie didn't budge.

  “All done?”

  Frankie glared at the stick.

  “I'll take that as a yes. Come on.” Allen turned back toward the seawall. “You as hungry as I am? Maybe I better jump in the shower and then we'll take a walk down to that little store and grab some breakfast.”

  The way Frankie took off for the motel was a sure sign he was ready for breakfast.

  Crystal was standing next to the soda machine when Frankie and Allen returned to the motel. She was smoking a cigarette and chatting with the guy who was emptying the money and reloading the soda.

  “No raise in three years,” said Crystal.

  “Uh-huh,” the guy replied.

  “The guy down to the Sea Latch Inn asked me to come work for him.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I have half a mind to do just that.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I don't need this job.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Morning again, Crystal,” Allen said.

  “Morning, Allen. This is Dillman Weed. He works for Coke.”

  “Hey, Dillman.”

  “Folks call me Dill.”

  “You got it, Dill.” Allen continued to the door.

  “Oh, and Allen?”

  “Yeah, Crystal?”

  “One thing I forgot to mention …”

  “What's that?”

  “Those guys from this morning … they said they'd be back around later today.”

  “Ya don't say?”

  “Yeah, they said they were on their way to visit a friend in the hospital, and then they'd be back.”

  “Thanks, Crystal.”

  “They also said they expected me to be a lot more friendly and cooperative the next time they saw me.”

  “What did you say to that?”

  “I said, 'Fat chance.'”

  Allen chuckled. Frankie bolted through the door the second Allen opened it. Allen followed the black and white blur up the stairs at a more leisurely pace.

  “Hear that, Frankie?” Allen asked his pal. He unlocked his door and the two of them went inside. “I bet they're big fans, and just want an autograph.”

  Chapter Four

  “Yeah?” Allen hollered. He buttoned his shorts and grabbed his T-shirt off the bed.

  Frankie let out a loud bark.

  Allen side-stepped closer to where his gun lay squeezed between the mattress and box springs.

  “It's Jacob!”

  “Hold on.”

  Allen pulled the T-shirt over his head and walked to the door.

  Jacob held up the four bags, two in each hand, as Allen pulled open the door.

  “You owe me twenty-eight dollars,” said Jacob.

  “For what?”

  “We bought Frankie a few cans of dog food, treats, and a ball. We also got you some milk.”

  “That was twenty-eight bucks?”

  “There's some other stuff my mom thought you might need if you were going to be here for two weeks.”

  “How did she know I was going to be here for two weeks?”

  Jacob shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe Crystal told her.”

  Allen nodded. “Maybe. Is it just the three of you down there?”

  “Three of us?”

  “You, your mom, and the baby.”

  “No, my dad's here too. He's usually at work though.”

  “Do the four of you live here in the motel?”

  “No, we live in Manchester Center—that's in Vermont.”

  “But your dad works here?”

  “Just for the summer.” Jacob turned and pointed at the construction across the street. “He works for those guys. Sometimes he's working there, but sometimes he works on other jobs. All depends on where they need him.”

  “And you guys came up to see him?”

  “Yeah. He's been here since June. We just came up a couple of weeks ago.”

  “How long are you staying?”

  “We're going home the end of September. My dad is staying until November.”

  “I see.” Allen turned and put the bags on the bed. “Let me get you that money.” He walked to the nightstand and picked up his money clip. “What was that you and your buddy were looking at yesterday? If you don't mind me asking.”

  “We weren't looking at anything.”

  “Sure you were. It was a piece of paper you didn't want me to see.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  Allen locked eyes with the young boy. “No?”

  “Nope.”

  There was no twitch in Jacob's eye, and he didn't look away. Allen continued to stare into the boy's green eyes as he walked toward him with the cash. The only sign that Jacob was lying was the effort he put into not blinking.

  “Okay,” Allen said. “Here's your money. Thanks.”

  “Any time,” said Jacob. “Bye, Frankie.”

  Frankie barked.

  Jacob hurried down the walkway, and Allen pushed the door closed.

  “Let's see what we have in these bags.” Allen pulled the cord on the drapes and the room lit up. He turned and stepped up to the end of the bed. He opened the first bag. “You like Alpo?” He rummaged through another bag and pulled out the Doritos. “I wonder if there's a can opener in one of those drawers? Coke, aspirins. Cheese?” He pulled out the brick of Colby cheese and inspected it. “Huh, I must look like a cheese-eater. No crackers. Quart of milk, loaf of bread, six eggs, Oscar Mayer bologna, and some Jimmy Dean pre-cooked sausage patties. Should I make breakfast here, or should we walk down the street?”

  Frankie hurried to the door.

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Allen put his groceries in the cupboard and fridge, stepped into his black and white checkerboard pattern Vans, and he and Frankie hit the road.

  It was exactly one mile from the Sunrise Motel to the Oceanside Store, and Allen and Frankie walked the entire distance on the beach. Allen was a little lax in his rules along the way, letting Frankie chase a few of the gulls. A couple times Allen grabbed a stick and gave it a throw. Frankie ignored it both times. Chasing gulls was far more fun than chasing sticks.

  They walked up the steps at the public beach house on Long Sands Beach and crossed the street. Three people stood near the Oceanside Store's order window, and three more were seated at one of the long blue picnic tables. Those who were seated had their breakfasts in front of them and were eating with plastic utensils out of Styrofoam containers.

  “Nothing fancy here, boy,” Allen said. “Just our kind of place.”

  Allen took Frankie's leash out of his pocket and clipped it on the dog's collar. He made eye contact with the other patrons to make sure he wasn't cutting ahead of anyone, and then stepped up to the window.

  “What can I getcha?” said the woman inside.

  “Do you have a menu?” Allen asked.

  “Sure do.” The woman reached to her left and snatched up a paper menu and handed it to Allen.

  “Thanks,” said Allen, stepping back away from the window.

  He scanned the menu for a second and returned to the window. The woman was gone, but soon walked back over when she saw him.

  “What can I getcha?”

  “I'll have two eggs scrambled, home fries, bacon, and white toast, please. And can I get a side order of sausage?”

  “Links, or patties?”

  “Patties.”

  She gave Allen the total; he paid and dropped the change she handed him into the tip can.

  “Okay, I'll call you up when it's ready.” She handed Allen his receipt. “You're number fifty-six.”

  Allen walked to the end of one of the picnic tables, sat down facing the water, and waited. Frankie sat down on the sidewalk next to him. Soon, a man in a BMW pulled into a no-parking zone right in front of Allen, blocking his ocean view. The gray-haired fifty-something l
eft the car running and got out. He was wearing navy wind pants. Tufts of curly gray chest hair billowed like tumbleweeds from the neck and arm holes of his black tank top. He crossed the street and stepped up to the order window.

  Allen looked down at his dog. “What did you say, Frankie?” he asked. “Should I move it?”

  Frankie wasn't even looking at him.

  “Okay, if you insist.”

  Allen bent down and tied the end of Frankie's leash to the leg of the table. He stood, looked over his shoulder at Tank Top, and walked across the street. He opened the door of the BMW, climbed in, and shut the door. He put the car in reverse.

  Tank Top spun around. “Hey!” he shouted. “That's my car!”

  All heads outside the little store turned.

  Allen backed the car up ten feet, put it in park, and got out.

  “What the hell do you think you're doing, pal?” Tank Top asked. He met Allen in the middle of the street.

  “I was moving your car for you,” Allen replied calmly. “You were parked in a no-parking zone, and you were blocking my view.”

  “View of what?”

  “The ocean.”

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?”

  “I sense that you're angry.”

  “Damn right, I'm angry! How would you like it if I called the cops?”

  “For what?”

  “Moving my car.”

  “Is moving a car illegal? Because I know parking in a no-parking zone is.”

  Tank Top's face was growing redder. Allen hoped he didn't stroke out like the guy at Stones Throw. How would he explain that to Rose and Tucker? Two men down in two days. Everyone in town would start referring to him as the Grim Reaper.

  “Calm down, Tank Top,” Allen said.

  “What did you call me?”

  “Tank Top. Would you rather I called you BMW guy, or Tumbleweed Chest Hair Man? I'd call you by your name, but I don't know it.”

  Tank Top looked over his shoulder at the curious onlookers, waiting on tenterhooks for the brawl they were sure was in the offing. Tank Top didn't know what to do next. He looked back at Allen. “Just stay away from my car,” he warned.

  “You got yourself a deal,” said Allen, “as long as you don't park in no-parking zones anymore, unless they don't block my view of the ocean.”

  Allen held out his hand to shake, and gave Tank Top a big, friendly smile. He looked down at Allen's hand. He didn't shake, and instead of returning to the order window, he walked to his car and drove away.