by Chris Lynch
We have been deposited in the savage beating heart of the place that is Lundy Lee. We are in front of the Episcopal church, looking straight ahead down the road to the ferry terminal. Straight down the other road to our left is what appears to be the commercial part of the town. To the right is a lot of nothing, leading to a large, clinical-industrial fright of a squat yellow-brick building that automatically makes you feel like walking in the other direction. We walk that way.
It is getting dark, and most places are closed up. We pass a drugstore, a dry cleaner, a fast food shop that has a long menu in the front window, though the one and only scent wafting out of the open front door is boiling grease. That doesn’t hurt its popularity any, though, as there are a dozen teenagers pimpling around out front and several more at the counter inside. We pass a Salvation Army thrift shop, right next door to a Salvation Army mission. Every place other than the fast food joint is closed.
There is a very narrow alley running between the two Salvation Army operations.
“I gotta take a leak,” Jarrod says.
“Go on, then,” I say as he slithers down the alley.
Da and I take up matching poses, arms folded, leaning on the corners of the two buildings. A couple of pagodas, guarding the sacred piss alley.
“What now, Da, do you think?”
“Don’t know,” Da says, “but I like it here.”
“You do?”
“What’s not to like? Look, there’s the ocean.”
He points, across the street and down a couple of blocks, where indeed you can see the open water leading out from the ferry terminal to the wide, watery world.
“So it is,” I say. “What are we going to do with it, though?”
“Well, can’t drink it. Too salty.”
“True enough. But I was thinking more along the lines of you can’t sleep on it. We are pretty well homeless right now. We have to work something out.”
“We will. This is the exact kind of place where things work out.”
“It is?”
“It is.”
We wait a bit more, silently, until I run out of patience.
“Well,” I say, “nothing is going to get worked out with numpty peeing down his leg all night.”
“Maybe he got lost,” Da says generously.
“Yeah, maybe,” I say, and start making my way down the pencil-straight lane.
When I get to the end, I am greeted by garbage and excrement smells, a Dumpster, and Jarrod stretched out on his back on the ground.
“Hey,” I say, rushing to him and kneeling down beside him. His eyes are open and staring at the sky. Otherwise, lifeless. “Jarrod, are you all right?”
“I am now. Lots of all right. Stars are beautiful tonight. And busy.”
I look up at the complete cloud cover.
“Yeah, dazzling. Come on, on your feet, Gonzo.”
“I’m not gonzo. I’m right herezo.”
I yank him up onto his feet. He wobbles, wavers, and finally gets something like righted. I lead him back out of the alley.
Where the other one has vanished.
“Jeez,” I say, smacking the side of my head with the heel of my hand. “Stupid, stupid.”
“Don’t say that,” Jarrod says. “If you are stupid, we don’t stand a chance. What’s wrong, anyway?”
I turn my anger on him. “Do you notice anything missing from this picture?”
Jarrod actually says, “Hmmm,” and looks around pensively.
“Ah, come on,” I say, yanking him by the arm.
We make our way farther up the strip, passing a closed insurance broker, an everything-for-a-dollar shop, and a liquor store, which is open but so barricaded and fortified it seems very closed. Da is not in there, anyway.
Then we find ourselves standing in front of a big, caged front window that reads in burnt orange arcing letters, BREAD & WATERS LOANS.
“Hey, it’s the place, isn’t it?” Jarrod says, pointing. “Haven’t we been here?”
“No, we haven’t. It’s one of the places the Golfer mentioned.”
And it appears to be open. And there appears to be an elder gent at the counter, speaking to the young man in charge.
We go in. “Da?” I say, and he turns around to greet us hazily.
“Yes, Young Man?”
“You can’t just flit off like that.”
“I don’t flit. I just walked.”
“Still,” I say. “I was worried. We don’t even know this town and-”
“I have a friend who told me about this place,” he says, picking up the Golfer’s business card off the counter where he’d slapped it.
“He’s a good man,” says the guy across the counter, who can’t be much older than me. “He was a good friend of my dad’s. So that card makes a good introduction.”
“I’m Dan,” I say, by way of my own introduction. I shake his hand.
“I’m Charlie Waters Jr.” he says. “Proprietor of this treasure trove.”
“Cool,” I say, looking around at all the fancy dresses, musical instruments, power tools, lawn statues, and all that make up the pawnbroker business. “Open kind of late, no?”
“Very irregular hours here,” Charlie says. “In this town, pawnbroker is a kind of on-call job, so sometimes I just stick around late. Sometimes I have appointments, late, early. Sometimes I just sleep in the chair.” He gestures to a particularly foul-looking thing squatting low behind him.
“Well, okay,” I say, “seeing as introductions are made and that card has introduced us nicely, can I ask if you know of a place three wise men might crash for the night?”
“Hmmm,” Charlie Waters says. “You mean someplace you would actually want to stay? In Lundy Lee?”
“We are happy to stay someplace we don’t want to stay too.”
He laughs. “Well, I have some storage space upstairs where I have had company stay before. I suppose I could offer you some floor space and blankets, for just a few bucks.”
“Yes,” Jarrod says, standing upright with eyes firmly closed.
“I’m quite tired, Young Man,” Da says, sounding more childlike than I have heard him yet. As we speak, I see his body packing up, curling his spine forward, making his hip hinge outward rather than forward.
“Thing is, Charlie,” I say, “we don’t have even a few bucks right now, to be honest.”
For such a young guy, Charlie Waters wears an expression that already nothing much surprises him.
“I do happen to be in the loans business,” he says, smiling warmly. “It says so right out there on my window.”
I sigh because it just keeps getting incrementally more embarrassing.
“Thing is, Charlie,” I say, “we don’t actually have anything of value, either.”
“You guys are the full winning hand, aren’t you?” Charlie Waters Jr. laughs.
“I do,” Jarrod says, raising his eyelids to half-mast.
“You do what?” Charlie asks.
“I do have something of value,” Jarrod says.
“What?” I ask. “Are you sure, man?”
“Sure what?”
“Sure you have something of value? Sure it’s a good idea? Sure you can manage to part with it?”
“Well, not all of it,” Jarrod says with a laugh. “But I can part with enough, for now, till I get sorted out with something else.”
Charlie Waters Jr. holds out his hands, palms up, as in show me what you got. He’s probably had more reason than most to practice that move.
Jarrod steps up to the counter, close to Charlie, to do just that. Bored, disinterested, confused-all that and more-Da wanders the shop now, touching clothes, trying out tin antique fire engine toys and dolls. I have to keep one eye on him while trying to watch the action at the counter.
“No,” Charlie says firmly but not unkindly. “I am not in that business.”
I feel myself, physically, emotionally, psychically exhausted, deflating. Jarrod’s shoulders too slump with
the defeat.
“My Da,” I say, “he’s not well. We’ve been traveling a long way. A long, long way. He needs rest. We all need rest, Charlie. If you could just see your way…”
Charlie is watching as Da goes over the collection of eye-catching dress-up clothes. I think maybe he shouldn’t be overhandling the merchandise.
“Stop that, Da,” I say, and he whips around to see us staring at him. He’s got a Royal Canadian Mounted Police hat on his head and it is so big it goes all twisted around at the swift head turn. He can only see us with one eye now, but he remains frozen.
Charlie’s turn to sigh.
“This is why I am a failure of a businessman,” he says. He picks up the Golfer’s card, waves it around at us, and says, “You can thank this fine guy.” Then he turns to Jarrod. “I am going to be sleeping down here tonight. When you get up tomorrow, come right to me, and I will try and steer you someplace where you might be able to convert your merchandise into useable currency. I think I know a guy. And if not him, I am pretty sure this guy knows a guy…”
We sleep on a floor that smells like dirt and sawdust that has been lying there since the thirties. Actually, there is something soothing about the smell. Charlie provided exactly what he promised-floor space and blankets-and although I feel a little stiff when I wake up, I could not complain one bit about the night’s sleep. It could have lasted a week, it was so deep.
I go to Da to check on him first thing. He is lying, awake, motionless when I approach him.
“How are you, Old Boy?” I ask.
“Stiff, Young Man. And tired.”
“Didn’t you sleep well?”
“I slept well. But it’s the kind of tired sleep doesn’t seem to fix anymore.”
I help him to his feet. He walks around the empty space, stretching and bending this way and that, working out the kinks. He walks to the dirty picture window facing onto the street, across the street, over the street to the sea beyond.
“Nice place,” he says. “Nice, nice place.”
I step up beside him to see this nice, nice place.
“Well, the sun is out,” I say. “Which is nice.”
I turn back to the bundle of blankets that was Jarrod’s bedding, and he is not there. “Let’s get on out into that nice, nice place and see where it gets us,” I say.
When Da and I get downstairs, Jarrod is dealing with Charlie at the counter. Charlie is handing over some bills, and both guys are smiling, satisfied.
“Hey hey,” Charlie says when he sees us.
“Hey hey,” Jarrod says. He sounds chipper, and even looks and smells better.
“Where’d you get the clothes?” I ask. He looks like a high school track coach now, but his duds are clean and so is he.
“Thrift shop,” he says. “And the mission gave me an egg and an English muffin and let me take a shower. In fact, they made me take a shower before they gave me the food.”
“Sleep well, men?” Charlie asks.
“Great,” I say. “Thanks again.”
“Happy to help,” he says. He and Jarrod have concluded business, and we head out of the shop. “I’m sure I’ll see you again,” he adds.
“Don’t count on that,” Da answers.
Out on the sidewalk, Jarrod turns around, all fatherly, and hands me some cash, and Da as well. Not a lot of cash, but some is a sum right now.
“So business went well,” I say.
“Business went well,” he says. “I went right over there,” he says, pointing across the street and a hundred yards up, where the Compass Inn sits next to the North Star Bar. “I was in the North Star, and it couldn’t have gone smoother. Pretty busy, too, for so early in the day. Best part, though, best part? When I showed the guy running the place that business card and asked about work, he called the ferry office right away. Right away.”
“That’s good,” I say. “Jarrod, that sounds really good. But don’t get your hopes too high. Most places don’t usually hire just like-”
“Well, this ain’t most places. I ship out this afternoon. Guy told me lots of new guys apply in the morning and ship out by the afternoon. Wild, huh?”
“Can I shower?” Da says, and steps right out into the street, aiming for the bar. I yank him back just before a beer truck rumbles past.
“Sure, Da,” I say. “But the shower is this way.”
We walk in the direction of the Salvation Army mission.
“Jarrod, what do you mean, shipping out this afternoon? Shipping out to where?”
“Don’t know, don’t care, didn’t ask. I just want to go. And you guys can come too. The man said they need any live bodies I could round up. Seems like they can’t fill these jobs no how for some reason. Lucky, huh?”
“Bugger boy,” Da says, not even looking toward us.
“Da, shush.”
“What? What does that mean?” says Jarrod, more offended than worried.
“Bugger boy. Boats need bugger boys. Bugger boy.”
Jarrod looks to me, a little more desperately now.
I silently wave Da off. “He doesn’t know anything about it,” I say. “Lucky you. You’ll land on your feet. This is great news. New life maybe?”
“Maybe. That would be really good, if a little scary, too. Guy in the bar, though, he told me that pretty much everybody on the boats does most of the same what I do, so it’s cool either way.”
Well,” I say, patting him on the back, “good news on top of good news. I am happy for you, Jarrod, I really am.”
We reach the mission and stand outside for a few seconds. “Come with me,” he says, “on the boats.”
“College,” I say.
“Postpone,” he says.
“No,” I say.
“No,” Da says, though not sure to what.
We sit at a small wooden table and sip juice and coffee while Da takes his well-earned shower. Then he comes out to find the promised English muffin, plus the drinks. Just like with Jarrod, I am not even offered solids pre-delousing. Da looks happyish, having undoubtedly taken his dosage. Happyish, though, as the pills just seem to get progressively weaker for him. I don’t think we’ll be buying generic next time.
Jarrod waits with Da while I take my shower. I am quick, but my, what a shower it is. Glorious. Life-giving.
We are all but glowing, the three of us, with renewed vigor and outlook, as we finish up, thank the mission folk profusely, and move on our way.
“Want to go look for some clothes now, Da?” I ask.
“Nope,” he says. He points in the direction of the Compass and the North Star.
“Hold on,” I say, determined to do at least a small something about my attire. I run into the thrifty, grab a heavy burgundy sweatshirt that says SUFFOLK UNIVERSITY LAW SCHOOL on it and a long, pea-green all-weather trench coat off the rack, a coat just like in all the foggy old spook movies in London. Very practical. I am pulling on the trench coat as I hit the sidewalk and it fits great, if I tie the belt around twice and don’t mind a jacket down to my ankles. As it happens, I don’t.
“That’s your new wardrobe?” Jarrod jokes.
“It’s versatile,” I say. “All I will need is this and a selection of underwear.”
Jarrod leads the way across the street, the newly minted professional sailor with the appropriate side-to-side swagger in his step.
We go into the North Star, where we meet the benevolent businessman and the helpful employment agent/barman and a few early drinkers who couldn’t be more polite if we bought them drinks. Which we don’t, and won’t.
“I have to go,” Jarrod says.
“Where?” I ask.
“Over to the terminal. I have to get my uniform, get fingerprinted… all the regular new job stuff.”
“I see,” I say.
“I’ll catch up with you later. But don’t forget, I leave on the one o’clock ferry. That’ll be it, I’ll be gone. So if I don’t see you before that, make sure you’re there.”
“Of cou
rse,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
He goes suddenly watery, wobbly. He grabs my hand.
“You wouldn’t, would you?” he says. “Everybody needs somebody to see them off, right? And you’re my best friend. You’re both my best friends.”
Da looks up at the tin, patterned ceiling, then down at the bare wood floor, clearly impatient with this.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say. “Count on it.”
“Okay, guys,” Jarrod says, excitedly backing away on his way to get fingerprinted and all that other usual new employee stuff.
“Now we can get a drink,” Da says, bellying up to the bar.
I follow him, and the bartender says, “ID, please.”
I am not bothered, as I really didn’t want one. I am happy to stand there while Da savors his own, however.
“Wild Turkey,” he says. “And I hope it’s the hundred-and-one proof, not that silly eighty-six stuff.”
The bartender laughs. “Well, sir, we have both. One just costs a little more.”
“Money is no object,” Da says, finally certifying his complete departure from this reality.
He does savor it, though, and the pure enjoyment I witness on his face as he does, and as he heads not once but three times over to the small circular porthole window that looks out onto the waterfront, is more intoxicating than if I had my own drink. Even the 101 proof.
“Let’s give the next place a try,” he says, nodding repeatedly his agreement with his own idea. “I bet they’ll serve you a drink. For goodness’ sake, you certainly look old enough. You look older than you did yesterday, even, you ol’ crock.”
“Sure,” I say, surfing his wave of good spirits, “let’s go, young crock.”
16
“Who the hell in this world plays a concertina anymore?” Da says as we sit at a grubby table in the grubby Compass Inn tavern, next to the grubby North Star Bar. Grubby as the place is, just like the North Star you can still look out the backside windows to watch the workings of the grubby harbor and the comings and goings of the ferry.
Da can barely contain his glee. One by one, salty characters attach themselves to us like barnacles, taking up all the spaces around our table. He’s like the new kid in the schoolyard everyone wants to get first friendlies with.
