by Seth Coker
The approaching footsteps’ cadence embedded in Cale’s brain. His breath slowed. He slid his right heel twelve inches behind his left, his left toes pointed at the big man, his right toes pointed sixty degrees right, knees bent, and his weight balanced. His left hand rested on his thigh, his right arm slightly bent and his thumb on his board shorts’ waistband. A six-foot-three, 210-pound rattlesnake waiting for the lumbering six-foot, 250-pound bull.
A rattlesnake could always strike a bull. But was there enough venom to bring it down? What’s with the mental commentary? Nobody was placing bets. Stay focused. Cale tried to remember he’d lost a couple of these before. (Yeah, but that was when he fought fair.) Big man, be smart, still time for you to turn around. Cale pondered making a small offering to the big man’s pride to try and stop the altercation. Even saying something innocuous like, “Hey buddy, I got no truck with you” might divert the energy flowing to this intersection, but Cale couldn’t bring himself to do it.
The big man now rocked his torso as he continued forward. He lifted his fists. Right hand slightly out wide ready to swing the upturned bottle. He closed in. Cale took two quick steps, split the upraised hands, and unloaded on the sternum. Boom! He grabbed the big man’s hair with his left hand. He pulled the head downward and brought his right elbow up, crunching the eye socket. Boom! Cale kept his left hand on the back of the meaty head. Grabbed, straightened, twisted, locked the right arm at the wrist, dragged him past and toward the ground. Cale gambled and dropped onto the locked arm. Crack! He rolled onto the enormous back and slammed an elbow into the right ear. Boom! The broken left eye socket bounced off the deck boards. Thump! The big man was out cold.
Bounding up, Cale scanned for danger. A nonpartisan witness, he hoped. The other two big men, he hoped not. The pounding heart told him to leave the destroyed big man. Adrenaline in overdrive. Body twitching. Slowly, he left the old fight-or-flight reptilian brain. He embraced the cognitive mammalian brain’s return. He reminded himself to breath in through the nose and out through the mouth. His lungs filled with the smell of salty sky, and he relaxed.
There were questions to be answered before he’d know exactly how to proceed. Who were these guys? Bad drunks mooching a trip from a fading playboy? Were they the Bahama’s bodyguards? Thugs wreaking havoc up and down the Atlantic seaboard? Good guys with wives and kids gone overboard on a guys’ trip? That could describe a few of Cale’s friends this weekend. Did the other meatheads and Bahamas know where this dude was? Nobody expected Cale here. The big man must have tracked him from a distance without being noticed. The thought that he had grown so obtuse as to not notice a two hundred fifty-pounder hiding behind lampposts made Cale feel soft around the middle and jowly around the neck.
The big man was breathing, but needed a hospital. Cale took the big man’s cell from his shorts pocket, dialed 911, and held his nose talking to the dispatcher. “I need an ambulance on the docks at Lumina Marina.” The dispatcher asked for clarification. He repeated the need and location then tossed the phone into the channel.
Doubling back to the bar, Cale grabbed a Bud and sat. He noticed Mr. Julep in the parking lot smoking a cigarette. No smoking in bars in North Carolina—how’d that happen? Philosophically, it was a horrible law. Practically, it was very nice. The Mrs. returned from the lavatory even more talkative with her husband away. Reseated, her leg once again pressed against Cale’s, despite the extra space at the table.
She put her hand on his arm and asked him, “Our hero has returned. Weren’t you scared?” He wondered how she knew, and he tensed up. She continued, squeezing his forearm, “Over there, when the big guy was yelling at the girl and you ran in to break it up.”
He relaxed, now knowing what she meant. Cale answered, “Maybe. I really didn’t think about it.”
Mrs. Julep added, “Don’t you think that whole group—the old guys in particular—look like guys in the mob?”
Cale didn’t acknowledge that he had the same thought. He heard the ambulance whine increase and then cease. He used the beer bottle as an ice pack on his knuckles. The ambulance lights weren’t visible. The street and parking lots to the north were on the west side of the buildings, and the patio was on the east, overlooking the waterway. Cale scanned the crowd for the Bahamas and the other big guys. They stood at the bar, getting animated in their review of the baseball game. The old guys seemed to have made friends with their neighbors. Nobody seemed anxious for the missing bodybuilder.
Fifteen minutes later, the ambulance siren hadn’t restarted. A good sign the damage wasn’t too bad. Although that arm had to be broken. Of course, if the ambulance didn’t leave with the big man, he would return to the bar, and then it would be best to be gone. Cale paid the waitress for the table, which included the Juleps’ bill. Of course, you’re welcome, ma’am. No, no thanks necessary. Ah, sure, here is my card. Dan rounded up the bachelor party members, less Blake and Van, and the men cast off. It was ten thirty. They would be home in twenty minutes—probably too early to get a bachelor party to call it a night, but worth a try.
12
WHEN THE SUN ducked fully behind the horizon, the captain hoisted the dinghy back on deck with the crane. Joe clicked on the overhead lights and started reading while Tony rummaged around for his glasses, which he belatedly realized were pushed up on his head.
After a few minutes Tony said, “Hey, Joe, is it me, or is it quiet downstairs?”
“Must be time for the big boys to get their evening attire ready. I think they’re in their cabin doing oms to make sure they’ll make the right clothing choice.”
“Hmm. Black jeans and a black crewneck T-shirt or black jeans and a V-neck T-shirt? You think to get in those sausage-skin jeans they wear they help each other pull up their zippers with pliers?”
“As much as they talk about getting action, would they need to call one of their buddies to help them get out if something did happen for them?”
“Nah, they would go Incredible Hulk-style and flex their quadriceps until … pop … nothing but ripped clothes.”
After a few more laughs, the conversation lapsed, and the captain could be heard finishing the departure preparations. Joe enjoyed the relative solitude and felt a little sentimental gratitude toward Tony for coming on the trip. He could shed a tear if he kept the thought in his mind too long. He laughed softly to himself and went back to his book.
Once it was started, the trip into the marina was quick. The captain drove the boat at about half its cruising speed yet still kicked up a big wake. The captain believed the inland waterway was a highway. If you wanted a dock on the side of a highway, that was your problem. Joe didn’t know enough to agree or disagree but noted the angry dock owners they left in their wake. Even if it made no sense to put a dock on the side of a highway, it wasn’t the dock owners’ fault. They’d just bought the most convenient spots they could afford. The blame should go to the local politicians who approved the construction. But they were just responding to their constituents’ desires and increasing the ad valorem tax base at the same time so they could fund the schools and the sheriffs’ offices. So it wasn’t really their fault either, but the fault of developers like Joe, who made money on the deals. But was it really the developers’ fault? Weren’t they just responding to what the market wanted and the laws allowed?
Joe found this a pretty good example of the tragedy of the commons. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could go back and turn the Intracoastal Waterway’s banks into national parks? Vladimir Putin could make it happen today and not even worry about compensating the current dock owners. Joe worried slightly that America’s government was showing Putin-like tendencies, drifting toward fascism under a socialist banner. Federal and local governments seemed to show systemically less respect for the Fourth Amendment in the name of security and used eminent domain for reasons as thin as increasing the ad valorem tax base.
The captain was talking with Tony and almost overshot the bar they wanted. Once the boat was
appropriately situated, Joe and Tony hopped off, followed by the trainers. Joe figured the trainers would stick close through dinner to save money. He thought it might be worth it to give them money to go eat elsewhere but didn’t want to set a precedent. He brought a stack of cash to close out after each drink so they wouldn’t run up a tab. He didn’t put it past them to buy champagne or expensive liquor on his tab for some girl they were afraid to talk to but wanted to impress.
ASHLEY’S GROUP GOT drinks and played cornhole. A few enlisted guys happy to be both out of the desert and off the base joined them. Ashley bought the marines a round in appreciation of their service. She paired with Van, and they won their first two cornhole games before losing and having to sit out.
She noticed the parking lot was filled up and the dock thinned out as the nighttime crowd drove over and the daytime crowd took off after a long day of sun and drinks. She watched Joe’s big boat plow up the channel before quickly shedding speed. The captain steered the boat into a hover beside the main walkway to let everybody off. He then took the boat down to the slip. She walked a few yards away from the group to watch him work the boat into the slip. He used the remote control as he walked around the deck, using different engines to keep the boat between the pylons and the walkway. Finally, he tossed lines to a deckhand, who helped him secure the boat.
JOE HEADED TO the bar and ordered a bucket of PBR. If there were too many calories in the Pabst, then the trainers could buy their own beers. They got the bartender to find the Yankees game. The Yankees were up in the third. There was a good chance they’d make the series this year. It was still strange to see someone other than Jeter wearing the captain’s band.
Shouting caught Joe’s attention. He turned to see his nephew holding one of the nurse’s arms, spittle coming out of his barking mouth. Joe said, “What the—” and stopped, letting his head droop.
“Paesano, that boy pisses in his own cornflakes,” Tony said, shaking his head side to side.
“Hey, Tony, you think it’s too late to sign him up for military school?”
“Military schools are too close to home. Let’s check on the Merchant Marine.”
ASHLEY SAW GINO pull her friend off a wall and onto her feet by her arm. He then pushed the guy with the sunburned feet over the wall into the plantings. That brought heat to her ears that she was sure flushed her face red. She wanted to slap Gino harder than she knew how. If it cost her getting reimbursed for her mirror, so be it. If the trip ended tonight, she was OK with that too.
In that moment, she wasn’t seeing Gino pulling her friend off a wall, but her dad pulling her mom out of the recliner that defined their double-wide’s living room. Growing up, Ashley spent as little time at home as possible. She tried to come home as close to dinnertime as she could. Sometimes she’d find Mom sprawled in the recliner, deep in an alcohol-induced slumber, her body at angles that would normally keep a human from falling asleep. The platinum-dyed top layer of hair, which usually magnified her sexuality, appeared grotesquely artificial against her brown roots in that unnatural position. When her mom was day drunk, her responsibilities were always half done. Maybe the clothes brought back from the community laundry facility, wet and ready to hang, were piled on the floor at her feet. Her tight and short polyester dress was wet where the clothes sat before they slipped down to the dirt-tracked floor and her chipped toenails. Or maybe there was a half-finished dinner—peas, carrots, and corn, partially boiled, peeled, and shucked, a store-bought lasagna starting to smoke in the twenty-four-inch-wide range.
If she found the bottle, empty or not, Ashley tossed it. Then it was the sprint to get Mom up before Dad came home.
“Mom! Wake up. Mom, you need to get up!”
A mumbled reply, “Go back to bed, Ashley … just a bad dream.”
She would pull on her mom’s eyelids with her fingers, slip a finger into her throat, pinch her cheeks—anything to induce a reaction. “Mom, you have to get up.”
Another mumble. “Ash, you’re home from … early … school.”
Then she’d stand in front of her mom and try to pull her up, hoping when her body became vertical that she’d remember to engage her own muscles before gravity took them both down.
Sometimes it worked, and her mom got coherent while Ashley completed the unfinished chores—hung the clothes, removed the layer of burnt cheese, opened the windows to get the smoke out. Sometimes Ashley got home too late to get things fixed. At the time, she felt it was her fault for not wanting to be at home. Now, she knew it wasn’t her fault, but emotionally, she still felt it. If her mom could have just let her know when she would be a mess, Ashley would have come back early or not left at all. But would it be twice this month or four times this week? There wasn’t a pattern Ashley could pick up on, and she blamed herself.
If Ashley got there too late, her dad would be home before her mom was up. He’d see Ashley pulling on his wife. He’d see Ashley frantically doing his wife’s chores, hoping she’d have better success waking her mom later but still before he arrived.
He was quiet in these moments. If Ashley wouldn’t leave her mom’s side, he might backhand her. Not in anger. Short slaps to keep household order. Certainly nothing like the belt-buckle-inflicted scars he collected on his back and legs growing up.
When he got Ashley out of the way, he would take his wife by an arm and drag her out of the chair. He’d let her fall as her body wanted. If her head did or didn’t hit the floor, it didn’t seem to matter to him. If her dress caught an edge and ripped, he just kept pulling. He’d pull her down the short hallway, past the trailer’s bathroom, and past Ashley’s closet-size room to the master.
He’d shut the door to their room. She could hear her mom being dragged onto her bed by that arm. Then she’d hear the shuffling as her clothes were pulled up or off and he did the same with his own. And then she’d hear her dad start in on her. In such a small home, devoid of sound insulation, there are no secrets in good times or in bad, and in this home, the bad had far outnumbered the good. Her mom always woke up before her dad finished. There would be a change in the sounds—some brief struggling, then acceptance, and occasionally excitement. It wasn’t exactly rape, at least her mom never thought of it that way. But it identified more closely with punishment than pleasure for all in the household.
So now, seeing Gino pull her friend up made Ashley too angry to see straight. A crowd had formed between her and her friend. She saw the guy with the floral shorts fly in from a different angle to stand nose to nose with Gino. She fought to get through the crowd, ready to unload on Gino wherever she could hit him.
JOE SIGHED, THEN hustled toward Gino. He slipped the fray, grabbed Gino’s thumb, and got him to release the girl’s arm. Without releasing Gino, Joe turned to Ashley, who appeared behind him, and handed her money from his shirt pocket.
He whispered in her ear, “I’ll fly these goombahs home tomorrow. Why don’t you and your friends get a hotel tonight? Try to be back to the boat by noon tomorrow. Captain says we have a five-hour ride to our next stop.”
Her eyes went from angry to vulnerable as he spoke. He saw her hands were in fists that slowly relaxed. She nodded, understanding.
Walking to the bar, Joe belatedly turned back to apologize to the nurse for Gino’s behavior, but she wasn’t looking his way. He noticed the bachelor being helped out of the bushes and onto his feet. He didn’t seem any worse for wear. His pride wasn’t even dented; he was cracking jokes before he had even gotten the planter’s dirt brushed off. He’d gone from romance to conflict to the bushes and then to joking and ready for romance again.
ASHLEY LOOKED AT her friend’s arm and saw the red finger impressions that would be bruises by morning. What did Joe call Gino? Goombah? That was a new one for her. She thought Joe was wonderful but had panicked over how he was going to react when she saw him get to Gino before she did. Would he support his nephew just because he was his nephew? She was unconsciously putting TV-land, father-figure expecta
tions on Joe, thinking he must support right over blood instinctually with a level of ethics she never experienced from her father. This expectation of someone to behave as a father figure was a new one for her. She had never let herself put these expectations even on Chief.
There was no fun for her friend left at this bar with Gino still present. The group prepared to leave, and Ashley tried to catch Joe’s attention. He and Tony were laughing, pointing, and facing the TV.
WITH THE DECISION made to send the trainers home, Joe’s spirits were up, and his energy returned. He would leave it to his nephew to explain to his sister why he was home so soon. He pulled the captain aside and asked him to book the trainers’ flights.
Joe could feel Gino steaming. One of the trainers tried to redirect the energy and asked Joe a question. “Hey, Joe, how’d you come up with a gangsta name like Framed for your yacht anyway? Youse not some kind of Mafia guy like the old men we see playing chess on the street, are you?”
Tony answered, “So you know what Joe and I did for a living, right?”
“Yeah, youse was carpenters.”
“And you know what carpenters do?”
“Yeah, they nail wood together. So what?”
“Part of what carpenters do is build the building’s envelope, its walls and floors and roof, right?” Head nodding. “Well, that is called framing. Joe is retired, and the past tense of framing is …”
The trainer had stopped listening to the lecture. The food arrived, and the conversation continued only between Joe and Tony, who ate facing the bar. The oyster po’boy was delicious, and the Pabst cold. Tony and Joe watched until the Yanks won without having to bat in the ninth. Like many days, it was a good day, despite the extended family mayhem. As the saying goes, you can’t pick your relatives. But for better or worse, blood is thicker than water. Right or wrong, Joe had grown up knowing to look after his own.
