by Kirk Jockell
“Oh hell, Nigel. I’m sorry. I was just…”
I held up a hand that said, That’s okay. You don’t have to explain. Then I asked, “What time is it, anyway?”
Red looked at the clock on the wall. “Well,” he said chuckling. “Mickey has the big hand on the three and the little hand on the seven.”
Damn, I hadn’t slept that late in I don’t know how long, ten, twelve years maybe. I felt terrible, worse than when I went to bed. It will probably be another ten or twelve years before I sleep that late again.
“So,” I said with a genuine smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Well,” Red started with a straight face I’ve rarely experienced, “I wanted to come by and talk to you a bit about something.”
“Sounds serious, my friend,” I said. “Can I put on some coffee?”
“None for me, I really can’t stay too long. But go ahead and fix a pot for yourself. I know you worship the stuff in the morning. I’ll talk while you are fix’n.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said. “And where did the bike come from? I don’t remember you having one.”
“I’ve always had it. It’s been in storage. That’s part of the reason why I’m here.”
I got up and headed to my small kitchen. “Go on,” I said. “I’m listening.”
“It’s about New Year’s, Nigel. I want to talk about New Year’s.”
That struck me as odd. “Okay,” I said. “Hold on a minute.” I continued to get the coffee ready. I poured the water in the pot, put the grounds in the filter, and turned the unit on. I walked back to the living room and sat back on the couch. “New Year’s?” I asked. “Red, it’s a little early for that isn’t it? It’s early October. We have months to talk about New Year’s.”
“Yes, and no,” he said. “I’m going to take a little trip. I’m taking off with J. J., my brother. We’re going for a ride. We’ve been planning this for some time.”
“A little ride?” I asked. “What do you call a little ride?”
“I don’t know. But I doubt I’ll be back in time for New Year’s.”
“So, you’re taking off?”
“Yeah, you could say that. My brother and I have some ground to cover and some catching up to do. I haven’t seen him in a few years. We need to go.”
“I get that, but over three months of riding?” I asked.
“It could be longer. I really don’t know.”
“What does Trixie have to say about this?”
“She’s good with it. She knows I need this.”
I didn’t say anything.
“That’s why I’m here,” he said. “If I’m not back by New Year’s, someone will need to manage the fire pit on the beach. That’s where you come in.”
The New Year’s fire pit. It’s an annual tradition. In the days leading up to the festivities, Red collects leftover Christmas trees from the streets of Port St. Joe. Once fifteen or so are piled on the trailer, he replants them on the beach to create a small seaside forest. Some are decorated with an assortment of leftover ornaments and celebrated throughout the night. Those undecorated are tossed into the fire pit at midnight to close out the old and bring in the new. It’s a special time.
I didn’t say anything. I let him talk.
“If it isn’t too much to ask, I would appreciate it if you would make sure the fire pit gets dug and the trees collected and planted. It would make me feel better knowing it was all taken care of. Plus, Trixie can’t do it all by herself. She’ll need help.”
I was a little taken aback. I didn’t quite understand what was going on, but I accepted it for what it was, a friend asking a favor. I had plenty of questions, but I figured it best to keep them to myself. No sense in prying.
“Red,” I said. “That’s not a big deal. You know that. I’d be more than happy to help.”
“Good,” he said. “I appreciate that.” He stood and headed to the door.
I sat there and watched him walk across the floor before I rose to my own feet. “Red? Where are you heading off to now?”
Red turned at the door and said, “I’m going for my ride. My brother is waiting.”
I looked beyond Red and towards the street. Resting out on the street was another Harley, its rider sitting in the grass. “Is that your brother?”
“Yes, and he can be a little impatient. He’s been waiting a while for this ride too.”
“Well let me go meet him. I’ve never had the pleasure.”
I began to head towards the door when Red gently placed his hand on my chest stopping me.
“You can’t meet him now. It’s against the rules. One day later, maybe.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Rules? What rules?”
I went to walk past, but Red stopped me again and cast a look that said, please.
I stood at the door as Red manhandled his bike back down off the porch. He mounted it and gave the Harley a great kick to start it. His brother did the same. The cacophony of Harley power filled the air for probably five square blocks. I expected to get complaints.
As Red and J. J. rode down the road, I walked out to the mailbox to watch them leave. I could hear them, but I couldn’t see much. They were heading east and the blinding power of the sunrise was more than my eyes could take. In a rumble and a flash, they were gone.
I stood there with squinted eyes and watched the hot fireball as it woke up the sky. I shook my head and smiled. That crazy Red. Then I walked back to the house, went inside and poured a cup of coffee.
I sat down with my coffee, heavy cream, no sugar. I was out of sorts. Waking up so late had me feeling I was running behind. I guess I was. Normally, my coffee maker would be cleaned and put away by now. But here it was, almost 0745, and I was only one cup into a full pot. Chalk it up to experience: Staying in bed doesn’t pay off. I can sleep when I’m dead.
My phone bonged. It was an email. I looked at the screen; it was a reminder from my Google calendar. I knew what it was for but opened the message anyway. Date night, Candice, 1930 pickup.
It had been a few weeks since we solved the not-so-clever mystery of Maxine’s kidnapping. Luke McKenzie and Maxine were reunited and are back at work. Man and goat, happy at last. Those responsible are probably still cleaning out their skivvies. A couple of them shit their pants before it was all over. But in the end, it all concluded well. Life in Port St. Joe was good, almost predictable, but not quite.
It was time to make good on a promise I made to Candice. For her assistance in helping me with Luke and Maxine, I told her we would have dinner one evening. Tonight was the night. I wasn’t sure what to expect. She’s made no secret about how she feels about me. In the last week alone, I’d received no less than three reports on how she was spreading the word about how things would go. I’m gonna surprise the shit out of that Nigel Logan. He’s not going to know what hit him. He’s gonna be blown away.
I had promised her a nice evening, a dinner, nothing more. I like her as a friend, someone to talk and laugh with. Beyond that, my interest wanes. She is very pretty, sexy actually, but she’s no Barbie doll. She can be a little unpolished, a little rough around the edges, but in an appealing kind of way. She’s a little too forward and a little too matter-of-fact, not at all afraid to tell you how she feels. I’m not sure what all she has in mind for the evening, but I hope she isn’t disappointed. I’m afraid an evening with Nigel Logan can be quite uneventful. Maybe someone ought to tell her to prepare for boredom. I smiled at the thought.
My phone bonged again. This time a text message. It was short, four words from Candice. Can’t wait until tonight. I smiled at that too.
After coffee I went into the spare bedroom which serves as my little office. I pulled the three memory cards I had stashed away in my camera bag, images from the regatta. I loaded them all in a dedicated folder on the hard drive. There were 1,187 images, all of sailboats, skippers and crew, all working towards a common goal, taking home a pickle platter for the trophy shelf.
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Over 1,180 pictures, it sounds like a lot, but not really. It represents over twelve hours of shooting time on the water in perfect conditions. I could have taken thousands more, but I didn’t. I’m not a spray and pray photographer. I don’t fire off five or more frames a second, hoping and praying for a money shot. I like to be selective. I like to think about the image I want. I try to frame my subject and time the shutter to get the image I’m looking for. I don’t always succeed, but I’m getting better at it. Plus, I don’t end up with five to six thousand images to sort through in post production.
After three hours of deciding which images to keep, dump, or edit, I needed a break. I jumped in the shower to clean up. Then while standing before the mirror to shave, I took a hard look at myself. Damn, Logan. You look like a flea bag. Get a freak’n haircut already.
A few minutes later I was walking into Gloria’s Salon and Spa on Main Street. The bell mounted at the top of the door frame rang as the door brushed by, an old-school system to alert the owner that another paying customer had walked in the door. It’s another example of how this forgotten piece of coastline has stayed frozen in time, where simplicity is allowed to rule over many of today’s modern advances.
The shop is a small three-bay salon, stations on the left side, simple privacy curtains extending out between them. On the right were four hair dyers where the gals can sit, read, and gossip while their hair styles cook. Next to that are two sinks for washing hair. It’s a simple, but efficient, setup.
From somewhere within the shop, I heard Gloria, “Be with you in a sec.”
“Take your time,” I said as I grabbed an old magazine and took a seat in the little waiting area by the front window. A couple of minutes later I saw Gloria’s head pop out from behind the last curtain where she was working on another patron.
I’m terrible at guessing people’s age, but I would put Gloria in her early sixties. She’s a little on the heavy side, but not too bad, more like pleasantly plump. She has the most beautiful blue eyes, and they pop against her classic blue rinse and perfectly styled hair. She’s a pleasure and always has a kind word.
Gloria flashed me her gorgeous smile and said, “Well, my, my. Now isn’t this something. Look what the cat drug in. Need a trim do we, dahl’n?”
I smiled back and nodded with a wink.
“Be with you in a minute, sugar. Let me get to a stop’n point with this one here.”
I could have gone to the barber shop on Reid Avenue. I probably could have walked in and sat right down, but after twenty plus years of having my hair cut by old sailors that smell of Old Spice or Aqua Velva, the change of pace was welcomed. Plus, the local intelligence from a salon has a tendency to be a bit more accurate than out of a barber shop. Gals in a salon sort and process information better than a gaggle of old farts sitting around a barbershop playing checkers. If you want to turn a mullet into a 42″ red fish, go to a barber shop. If you want the juicy details of the truth, go to Gloria’s.
I wasn’t looking for gossip or information. I needed a haircut, quick and easy, George and Weezy.
I looked up from my magazine to see Gloria’s hand extended towards me. “Come on, sweetie, let’s wash that mop first.” I got up and she led me to the first sink. I sat down and put my head back into the basin as she placed a towel around my neck. She wet my hair, applied some apple-scented shampoo, and went to scrubbing my head as she talked.
“So what brings you in today?” she said as her fingers aggressively worked the lather into my brain.
“Having dinner with a friend tonight, so I want to knock off the rough edges. Get a trim,” I said.
“A friend, well, anybody I know?” she asked with a hint of heightened awareness.
I said nothing at first. The question was asked with too much deliberate inflection. She already knew something before I even sat down. She wasn’t looking for an answer. She was looking for confirmation. That didn’t surprise me.
“Now, Gloria. Are you going to stand there and pretend that…”
From across the room, a loud, forceful, slightly panicked, but familiar, voice called out from behind the last curtain. “Who’s out there? Gloria, who are you talking to?”
“No one, dear,” said Gloria. “Sit tight. I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Don’t feed me that. I heard you. Who are you talking to?”
“Candice?” I asked. “Is that you?”
Gloria giggled as she rinsed.
“Nigel Logan! Are you out there?” She turned in her chair to take a look. “Oh, shit! What in the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m here to get a…”
“Get out, dammit. Get out of here right now. Son! Of! A! Bitch! I can’t freak’n believe this.”
I lifted my head and craned to the right to take a look. It was the wrong thing to do. There was Candice, not looking her best. Her hair was going in every direction, flat panels of aluminum foil everywhere, ready to tune in alien radio transmissions. Plus, she had green goop on her face, some cosmetic mask. I got lambasted.
“DO NOT LOOK AT ME! Turn your head, now. Oh my God! I can’t believe this is happening.”
Candice went on and on. I looked at Gloria with a hint of a smile as I shook my head. “You are so bad,” I said low enough that only she could hear.
“Are you still here? I told you to leave. O! M! G!”
“Okay! Okay! I’m leaving already,” I said.
Gloria did her best to towel off my wet head as I walked across the floor. When I got to the door I tried to pay for the scrub, but Gloria shook her head with a smile and said, “No charge, sweetie. I should pay you. That was priceless.”
I kissed Gloria on the cheek and opened the door. The bell rang. I stopped in the doorway and turned, “See you at 7:30. Be ready. I’m never late.”
There was silence.
“Candice? Did you hear me?”
“GET OUT!”
“Okay. See ya then.”
I walked out onto the sidewalk, my head still soaking wet. I turned left and went around the corner. Two minutes later I was sitting in a chair, looking out a window, watching the red and blue spiral of a barber’s pole move upwards. As I listened to the sound of scissors clipping, the smell of Brute aftershave was all around my head. I smiled.
At 1925 I was sitting in the driveway of Candice’s house. I’m always on time, or at least try to be. At 1930 I walked up to knock on the door, but as I was about to knuckle up, it flew open. Candice stood there for a moment and glared at me, then brushed by. She didn’t even offer a hello. She stormed by, walked out, and got in my truck. Games. I don’t do games well.
I stood there at the door. I didn’t budge, stood there looking at her. I waited. She sat there, looking straight ahead, not at me, but straight ahead. I continued to wait, then I waited some more.
After several minutes, she got out of the truck and stormed back to the porch. “Well?” she said.
“Get back in the house.”
“What?”
“I said get back in the house and maybe we’ll try this again.”
She didn’t say anything. She huffed and went back inside.
I waited a good two minutes and knocked on the door. It flew open. She looked indignant with a hint of embarrassment, a strange combination. It softened when I smiled. I took her in with my eyes. I didn’t say anything. She couldn’t stand the silence any longer and asked, “What? What is it?”
“You look great,” I said. “Really. You look fantastic.”
I meant it, every word. Her hair was gorgeous, time well spent at Gloria’s. She was sporting a color I like on her, a hazelnut with blond highlights. The same color she wore when she helped me out a few weeks ago, tearing down the “Wanted” posters that Luke McKenzie put up all over town. She was in weathered jeans and a white blouse that partially showed through a black leather jacket that perfectly matched her cowboy boots. Everything she had on perfectly showcased all her best features.
&n
bsp; Her look softened some more, into a genuine smile. “Thank you, Nigel. I’m sorry for acting the way I did earlier.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about,” I said. “Are you ready?”
We pulled out of the drive and headed towards Highway 98. Her perfume was a huge improvement over the normal smell of my truck, usually a combination of stale beer and french fries. The pine tree shaped air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror always struggles to stay ahead of the stench.
A victim of her occupation, she normally smells worse than my truck, of beer and cigarette smoke. You would expect that, I guess, from anybody that makes a living working a small bar in a town with no smoking ordinances. Tonight, however, all of that was washed away and what she had on was a delicate floral scent, not overbearing, quite pleasant to the nose, my nose anyway. I liked it.
I came to the first stop sign, slowed, then stood on the brakes, enough to cause a slight lunge forward. I looked in my rearview to check for oncoming traffic. There was none. “So,” I said. “Where to? What do you have a hankering for?”
“Really?” she asked. “I get to pick? Most guys just head straight to some bar with food and a big TV.”
“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not from around here. And you know, come to think of it, this is my first night out with anyone since I came to town. Maybe I’m not in tune with local protocol, but, where I come from, the lady gets to pick.”
“No one’s called me a lady before.”
I didn’t say anything at first. I took my time and drove on through the intersection. “Just think about it and let me know. Any place you please.”
“Can we hear some music?” she asked. Without waiting for an answer she reached over and turned on the radio. She was adjusting the volume, “Is that too loud?”
I shook my head. “That’s fine.”
Through the speakers, Oyster Radio filled the truck cab with rhythm and melody. It was Salt in the Blood, written and performed by our local friend, Brian Bowen. It’s a great tune celebrating the life and times of local watermen. It’s a personal favorite, but unfortunately we missed most of it. It was just going off.
