Grinder

by Mike Knowles

  I was greeted inside the restaurant by the smell of frying seafood. The bubbling sound of the fryers muffled the eating noises of the four solitary patrons. I was too tired to attempt eating anything that would require two hands, so I ordered a bowl of fish chowder and an order of fish and chips. The chowder came fast and it was hot and creamy. I had to search for the advertised pieces of crab and lobster until I finally found a piece of each on the bottom of the bowl. The fish and chips arrived minutes later in a red plastic basket. The oily fish and fries lay atop a piece of waxed paper printed to look like old newsprint. The fish was good; it settled deep in my stomach and made me immediately bone weary. I dropped a twenty down and left the restaurant without waiting for the almost nine dollars in change I would have gotten back.

  I went to my room without my bags and went to sleep on the bed. I woke fourteen hours later and spent the following week in a painkiller haze. After the seven days at the motel, I felt good enough to travel away from the city deeper into the heart of the island. An hour out of Charlottetown, I stopped at an Atlantic Superstore to look at the community bulletin board, and found a house for rent minutes away from the ocean. Nellie, the old woman renting the house, was pleasant and inquisitive. She gave me directions to the house and met me there in her apron. I put her in her sixties, but her hair still had much of its youthful red. Her face was worn but tight; she was a woman who would age well until she finally could no longer age at all. Nellie fought the urge to ask questions about my long stay for fifteen whole seconds. I told her that I just had to get away from the city, and she instantly understood me as though I had just spoken some immutable truth. She told me five minutes worth of big-city horror stories that I was sure she had never learned first hand before we agreed on the evils of big cities and a price for the house. I paid her up front for four months, in cash, and she left me alone in the house holding the keys.

  I hadn't lied to Nellie. I did have to get away from the city. I had made enemies of both sides of the underworld — Italian and Russian — making my presence dangerous on a good day. Add to that the condition of my mangled left arm, and I wouldn't last a day in Hamilton. I needed to start over where no one could find me. I needed to rehab my body. Most of all I needed to find a new way of life; something different from my parents' way, and most important different from my uncle's way. I needed to find a life all my own and shape it myself.

  I spent days walking the long road in front of the house to the local beaches and wharves. Each day I tried to swing my left arm more and more to bring back its range of motion. After a month of walking, I could swing my arm to shoulder height making my walks awkward to look at. Once I looked sufficiently stupid swinging my arms, I switched to running in the forests that surrounded the house. I used my arms to pull myself over fallen tress and up hills. I lost my grip often and fell at least ten times a day at first, but after another month I could run for hours unimpeded.

  My left arm began feeling normal, but different angles brought with them immense pain. On one of my trips into town for food, I found a gym overtop of a local hockey arena. I ran in the mornings, using the forest to bring my arm back, and used the gym in the evenings. Slowly, I began to be able to move dumbbells off my chest. It took two more months before I felt in shape. I was better, but I wasn't what I was. I knew I didn't have to be like I was anymore, but I couldn't let the wound be what changed me. The wound was like the city holding on to me — letting me know I couldn't escape. I had to get its hand off me. I doubled the workouts and used the stairs at the house to do angled one-arm push-ups. At first, the strain on my joints caused me to scream, but I built up from less than one to sets of ten. By the summer, when my seventh month at the house ended, I could do fifteen one-arm push-ups reversed on the stairs with my feet elevated above me. I pounded out rep after rep, hardly feeling the strain on my joints. It was about this time that I went stir crazy.

  The small town offered little in the way of entertainment. There was a grocery store and drug store that combined also covered the town's book, hardware, and appliance needs, and a theatre that played movies already released on DVD. The only real excitement was the fishing. I loved to watch the fishermen bring in their hauls at the end of the day.

  I watched in awe as boat after boat pulled in with bluefin tuna that weighed hundreds of pounds. The biggest fish were dragged in behind the boats — the carcasses staying fresh in the briny water that had given them life minutes before. The fishermen took turns raising the giant fish onto the docks. Tour groups stood with the hanging catch for photo opportunities — the captains smiling biggest of all. They got the profit of the catch while the charter passengers got the cheap photo and the priceless story to go along with it.

  Once the photos were taken, the largest tuna were taken apart on the dock with a chainsaw. In the same spot in which they had just been immortalized on film forever, they were dissected for the value of their parts and put on ice. The large tuna were soon riding the ocean once more, only it was in the belly of a boat bound for Japan.

  I watched the haul every day I could before making the long walk back to the house in the woods. On my way home one night, I decided I would book a charter of my own.

  On a cold Wednesday morning, I headed out fishing with a man named Jeff. His boat Wendy was worth hundreds of thousands of dollars making me think the giant fish must be worth their weight in cash.

  “Good money in this?” I asked as we plowed through the water.

  “Charters? Oh, sure, couple a fellas out on the water makes me a good bit for sure,” he said.

  “Not the charters, the fishing. The boat doesn't look cheap.”

  “Fishing is a funny thing. When it's good it pays the bills and more for sure, but when it's bad you can't even put fish on the table.” He laughed at his own joke for a second before going on. “Chartering is like the middle. It gives me some cash on a slow day, and if we catch something I get that too.”

  “Win, win,” I said. Jeff smiled at me and looked out at the vast expanse of water ahead. The blowing sea air was clean; nothing polluted it with exhaust or pollen. I breathed deep as though for the first time and smiled. It wasn't the cold grin I learned from my uncle that usually came before violence — it was a genuine smile. I was happy on the water.

  Once we came to a stop in the water, Jeff pulled a fish from a tub at the back of the boat; it wriggled alive in his hands.

  “If this is your idea of fishing, I want my money back.”

  “Get lost, boy. This is the bait. The fish love 'em. But first . . .” He put the fish down on a work table and pulled a knife from a magnetic strip that held it above the work surface. He cut the fish into chunks and threw the pieces into a stained bucket. He repeated the process, pulling more fish from the tub to chunk them on the table.

  “Why not just do this ahead of time.”

  “You gotta do it this way. The tuna like it fresh, and if the bait is too cold they'll spit it out before the hook gets in.”

  “They can spit?” I said. My tone gave away the fact that I thought I was being fed a script meant to entice the tourists.

  Jeff stopped his bloody work and looked me in the eye. He pointed at me with the knife, and his words had no humour in them. “You got to get your head around what you're dealing with here. These aren't goldfish you're hunting. These are monsters. Dangerous monsters who know what they like, and aren't afraid to tell you different.”

  I nodded at the knife and realized Jeff didn't work from a script. “How do you know there are tuna here?” I asked.

  “I work this water every day. I know where the monsters are, but you can check the fish finder if you don't believe me, city boy.”

  I followed his directions up the stairs to the fish finder beside the wheel of the boat. The screen showed a scattering of yellow dots; below the yellow spatter were two large red dots. “What am I looking at?” I yelled back to Jeff.

  “The yellow dots are a school of mackerel. Those fishe
s are running for their lives down there for sure.”

  I walked back down the stairs to find Jeff looking over the side of the boat at the dark water. “Are the red dots tuna then?”

  He smiled at me and put one gloved finger to his nose, closing a nostril. He pushed air hard through his nose, shooting snot over the side. “Those red dots, city boy, are giant bluefin tuna. Not your canned tuna. Big fuckin' monsters for those Japanese fellows to have with rice and sake. Godzillas with gills, for sure.”

  “How big?”

  “Anywhere between two hundred and a thousand pounds. I told you it's no goldfish; it's a bull. It runs fast and it doesn't get tired. This thing will fight you like nothing else.”

  “How do we catch it?”

  “You stand over there and you hold that rod tight. You paid for the experience so you can go mano-a-fisho for a little while. You can let it beat your ass until you're ready to hand it over.”

  I put a hand on the pole and watched the water lap the boat while Jeff threw bait over the side. The chunks sank fast, leaving no trace they ever existed until Jeff threw more on top of them.

  “I want the fish to swim figure eights around the boat. If he's into the bait he'll stick around for more.”

  On the third toss, I saw a dark shape streak by the boat under the splash of the raw fish. Jeff saw the streak and laughed under his breath. He baited the large metal hook with something white before spearing a large chunk of bait.

  “What is the white stuff?”

  “Styrofoam, city boy; it came with the new TV. The hook is heavy. The foam gives it a bit of lift so it won't sink before Godzilla gets a chance to pass it by. Secure the pole, city boy.”

  I grabbed the pole, anchored in the metal holster, with two hands while Jeff threw the baited hook over. Even though the pole was propped up by the holster, I could still feel its heavy weight; it was nothing like the fibreglass rods I used as a kid. I breathed deep and cleared my mind while I waited for the giant below to grab the loaded bait. Jeff and I sat quiet in the boat. No more questions or sarcastic remarks passed between us. I stared at the line, happy for the calm minutes on the ocean. As if the giant below sensed my happiness, the line began to run out, yard after yard, away from the Wendy.

  “He can run fast and deep for almost three hundred yards. Problem is he swims with his mouth closed. Eventually he's gonna have to slow down to open his mouth and breathe.”

  The line ran from the pole as though I had shot something into the water, the reel releasing its heavy line as though there were no drag at all. After a long minute, the rapidly fleeing line began to slow, and that's when the real fight began. I stood, heaving against the rod, for what felt like hours. I followed every instruction the suddenly serious captain gave me. Jeff never asked me to turn over the pole; he just guided me in killing the giant.

  After an hour of endless fighting, I began to see the head of my foe. My left arm burned with the effort of fighting the bluefin, but I never let go. I was up against my first real test and I was not going to blink. Little by little I began to see more of the head of my enemy; it was heavy and fierce, its eyes alive with fear and the marine equivalent of adrenaline.

  As I dragged the fish closer and closer to the boat, Jeff stopped watching me with his hawk eyes and turned to retrieve a huge pole off the a rack at from the stern. The pole was old and worn and had a large black hook on the end. The tool didn't match the many technological advancements on the boat — it was a relic from harder times. It was a grim instrument, one I later learned to call a gaff, and it made the tuna's tremendous opposition all at once understandable.

  “Bring it closer,” he yelled.

  I manoeuvred the tuna beside the boat, and Jeff bent over the side and swung the hook into the flesh behind the head of the bluefin tuna. With my help, he dragged the fish into the boat. It hit the deck with a thud and helplessly slapped its tail against the deck as though it were only airborne and not helplessly dying. I felt a pang of empathy for the fish. I knew what it was to be beaten to the point of death.

  If Jeff caught my expression he didn't show it; he just looked over the fish and then at his watch. “We got time to get this back in before it starts to spoil. If we stay out I have to bleed it and pack it with ice. That would take about as long as it would take us to just cruise into the dock.”

  “How big is it?” I asked.

  “'Bout three hundred pounds, city boy.”

  “How long would it take for one of the real big fish?”

  “That's five or six hours of hard work, but it's easier at the end. We don't bring them into the boat when they're that big. We secure them by the tail and tow 'em in to be lifted out with a small crane.”

  “So you get all the cash for this catch plus what I paid?”

  Jeff smiled at me. “Sometimes it pays to be an island fisherman, eh, city boy? But it ain't all easy. No, I gotta haul it in, get it ready with the saw, and then clean up the boat. No, the job ain't all roses, that's for sure.”

  “Sounds like you need help.”

  “Had a college kid, but he quit on me. Thought the hours were too long. Ha, I told him you want to make a living on the boat you gotta be out before the sun and you only stop when it's long gone. There's lots of island kids looking for work. I'll take another on before long and work him till he decides he's meant for other things. Kids today don't want to work all day fighting the fish; it's easier to go work at Subway. There the only fish you fight are already at the bottom of a bucket.”

  I thought about it for a minute — the minute was fifty-nine more seconds than I needed. In the last four hours, I hadn't thought about home or my arm once. “I want to work for you, Jeff,” I said.

  “Why's a city boy want to get his hands dirty for peanuts? 'Cause make no mistake, that's what I pay. I don't share the profits.”

  I used the same excuse I'd given Nellie. “I need to get away from the city.”

  Jeff smiled again. My answer seemed to be some secret code that everyone on the island silently understood. “Well,” he said, gesturing at the expanse of ocean, “ya won't get much farther away than this.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I spent the rest of the season searching for giants with my captain. I was paid a low hourly wage, and I was treated better — he didn't talk to me like I was an idiot more than three times an hour. I learned the ins and outs of fishing off the coast and in the deep ocean. Because I wasn't paying anymore, I was no longer the one holding the rod. Jeff fought the monsters while I followed orders. Between bouts of frantic reeling, he explained how to sense when to pull and when to let the fish run. The only job left for me was gaffing. Once the fish was close enough to see the panic in its lidless eyes, it was my job to bury the hook behind its thrashing head. The trick was timing the strike so that the gaff sunk deep into shoulder of the fish. The shoulder was dense enough to support the weight of the fish as it was pulled from the water and it was far away from the prime meat. After a few weeks at sea, I could bury the hook deep in the fish without a moment's hesitation. It was like stabbing a person up close. All at once, the panicked eyes went even wilder until they dulled as the fish resigned itself to its fate. If the fish was big enough, I was demoted to harpooner. I would spear the fish, to bring it closer to death and even closer to the gaff. When the true monsters were circling the drain, we hooked them with wire and dragged their carcasses back to port. The part of me that felt remorse for the first fish I saw dragged into the boat vanished after my second trip out. Part of me, a part I tried to pretend was gone, enjoyed the thrill of the fight. It wasn't the cruelty that brought me back day after day. It was the skill of the hunt and the artistry of the perfect blow with the gaff. Fishing felt like reflex. I used the old muscles I had developed working with my uncle and for Paolo Donati. As much as I thought I wanted a new life, there were some things I couldn't unlearn, even out on the ocean away from all the city lights and smells.

  At the end of the fishing season, Jeff we
nt on EI, even though he had earned almost six figures from the tuna and charters. I spent the winter in the house . . . working out and having a nightly meal with my captain and his wife Wendy. Each night, I was invited back into Jeff's home and treated as though I were a member of the family rather than an employee. My awkwardness and lack of social skills wore off fast in the loving home. I learned to enjoy dinner, and began to look forward to it. Soon I found myself keeping tabs on interesting things to bring up over dinner. The dinners expanded to weekends. I watched movies with Jeff and spent time admiring his hunting rifles while I was told stories about the ones that got away. Through all the stories and firearm showcasing, I played ignorant pretending to be in awe of the dangerous weapons.

  I loved my new friends. A fact which made it hard to hide what I was. We spoke mainly about fishing and life on the island. When I was put on the spot about my life before the island, I stuck to generic comments and terms like “rat race,” which got me appreciative nods. So long as I spoke of the city in clichés, I was safe from further probing — even safer from losing my new friends. My old life was something few would be able to understand, and a good man like Jeff would never allow me to be near his wife and business if he knew what I was. I understood this — he had priorities and they were sacred to him. I was still searching for my own new priorities, and for a while I thought the search was narrowing as I began to truly become a part of other people's lives again for the first time since my parents died. I laughed and smiled more often; I even forgot to check over my shoulder once in a while. The island had healed my body, but it had trouble healing the rest of me.