South of the Pumphouse

by Les Claypool

  Regardless of the hurdles, Mother Nature is still able to maintain a relatively strong presence in these waters. The starry flounder, the bullhead, the striper, and the sharks, skates, rays, and other mud dwellers all live as best they can in this vast wasteland—or wonderland, depending on one’s perspective.

  Among the aquatic residents of San Pablo Bay, one stands a bit more majestically than the others—a wondrous creature known as the sturgeon. The white sturgeon, or acipenser transmontanus, looks like a cross between a shark and a catfish, with the hide of an alligator. This prehistoric-looking beast can grow to be quite large. Along with the elephants of the African plains, the sturgeon is like no other creature in its domain. Relatively little is known of these ancient creatures, apart from what any local sportsman can tell you about the firm white meat and the incredible battle that awaits any angler lucky enough to sink a hook into one of the grand giants’ leathery mouths. California State fishing regulations define a “keeper” sturgeon as no less than forty-four inches long.

  Chapter 5

  MEAN PEOPLE SUCK

  Tasha’s lips looked incredibly sultry as she slept. They were lips that women paid Hollywood surgeons big money for—full, rich lips. Tasha was the type of sleeper who breathed through her mouth, and saliva trickled from the corner of her parted lips onto the pillow. She would slumber heavily tonight, maybe a little heavier than usual, because the sex just a few hours earlier had been on the more passionate side. Not that the sex wasn’t always passionate, but this was exceptional. An occasional tingle kept her from falling into a truly deep sleep. Normally she associated that tingle with the urge to urinate. Most nights she stumbled instinctively to the bathroom for her mid-nightly pee, but tonight it was more than the urge to pee that made her tingle.

  Earlier that day she had visited Inca-do’s, the local tattoo and body piercing shop, to get her hood pierced—the clitoral hood at the top of her vagina. She’d talked about having this particular piercing done for a while, but her man Ed had always seemed uncomfortable with the whole subject. Finally, in a rampant display of female bonding, she and her best friend Leela threw back a few shots of tequila and, as Tasha would later describe it, went out and “got our pussies pierced.” It had all been in good fun, but once the buzz started to fade, Tasha grew concerned about what Ed would think. Not that he was the type to get angry. More likely, Ed would simply grow quiet, calmly and carefully voicing his disappointment.

  This time, though, Ed surprised her. Upon entering the house that evening, he was greeted by Tasha sitting on the couch wearing nothing but a vintage yellow Welcome Back, Kotter T-shirt and a pair of high-top Converse All-Stars. She sat well-postured and upright, smiling from ear to ear, with her knees spread wide. Ed instantly noticed the silver gleam from the stud at the top of her well-trimmed pubic hair. His cock grew hard, poking at his pants. He smiled and moved toward her.

  No one had ever made Ed feel the way Tasha did. She was more exotic than any woman he had ever dreamed of in his teens. She grew up in Berkeley, the daughter of a prominent neurosurgeon. Her father, Dr. Nicholas Taylor, was an African-American, who had started his training as a medic in Vietnam. He had fallen for a local woman while overseas, and much to the chagrin of both families, the two were wed.

  Bringing an Asian bride home to the United States was becoming more and more common in those days, but racial tensions in Nicholas’s home state of Georgia still made it a less than appealing place to raise his newborn daughter. After a stint with the local community college, Taylor made his way to the University of California in San Francisco, eventually relocating to Berkeley, a place where an interracial couple drew little attention. With the progressive social and political climate of Berkeley in the early ’70s, Nicholas and his wife Mai Pan found a place they could truly call home.

  Though not a classical beauty, Tasha exuded a look that was uniquely striking. She had dreaded hair, about shoulder length, and her big brown eyes were accented by a thick pair of black horn-rimmed glasses that teetered on the edge of her button nose. Her caramel skin was dotted on various parts of her body with small tribal-patterned tattoos. Showing a unique flair for casual thrift fashion, she favored old hats, work boots, and campy handbags, drawing double takes from men and women alike as she walked the avenues of Berkeley. She was medium height, with a wide smile and a feminine face, yet her saunter was confident, almost masculine.

  Ed had a moderate share of girlfriends growing up in his small hometown, but the first time he met Tasha, he was immediately taken aback by her presence. Though at times she was playfully childlike, she was intelligent and extremely independent. If one were to identify the dominant party in the relationship, it would be her. She was far from being a hard woman, however, just a bit more outspoken than Ed, who by all standards was considered a nice, easy-going guy.

  Tasha was relieved to find her piercing decision so well received. Ed walked over to her from the door and dropped to his knees.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said as he moved his face between her legs.

  He flicked his tongue once across her labia, just below the piercing. He always loved the soft, salty taste. Tasha smiled and put her hand on the back of his head, kneading her fingers through his hair.

  “Is it all right to touch it?” asked Ed, licking her again.

  “Yes, just be careful. They said we should avoid sex for a few days.”

  He ran the tip of his tongue across the silver stud. It was smooth and cool. It made his pants throb.

  “Mmmm, I don’t think I can hold back, hon. I got me quite a boner going here,” he whispered as he reached into his underwear.

  Tasha pulled him up toward her face, slipped her tongue between his lips, then said softly, “I’ll put it in my mouth for a while, if you want.”

  He kissed her and then spoke coyly, “Can I rub it against your butt?”

  Tasha gave a sly laugh and pulled him in tight with her legs.

  So went the night. Apart from the tingling, Tasha slept well. So did Ed. The past few weeks had been rough for him. Though he had been brought up in an environment where men suppressed any feelings of sensitivity, Tasha had been able to get Ed to open up for her during their handful of years together, and with the recent loss of his father, she could sense his confusion and struggle with grief.

  Ed’s passion for Tasha was intense, but when it came to sleeping, rarely did he hold her. She, on the other hand, was a cuddler, and would have very much enjoyed it if Ed held her all night every night as she slumbered. On the occasion that they did fall asleep entangled in each other, the morning would find him on his own side of the bed, more often than not with his back to her. He was very protective of his space, another result of his upbringing.

  Ed reached over his bride to turn off their Euro-style Braun alarm clock. The gentle beeping only aroused a furrowed brow in Tasha. Hamster, the large yellow dog sleeping on the floor at the foot of the bed, raised his head in mild interest. Ed’s main concern was to shut the alarm off before it woke his young son.

  Ed pulled himself out of bed. He was on the tall side, on the border of lean and skinny. He stood naked. Between his navel and genitals was a tattoo of a Celtic design that stood out starkly against his pale skin. It had been awhile since Ed had seen 5 o’clock in the morning, and it took him a moment to collect his thoughts. He patted Hamster on the head, pulled on his pants, and headed for the bathroom just a few feet away. Ed was careful to be as quiet as possible, peeing toward the side wall of the toilet and then not flushing. He made sure not to bang his toothbrush on the edge of the sink. Reentering the room, he pulled on a shirt and grabbed his jacket, some keys, and a wallet. He leaned over and kissed Tasha on the forehead, before patting the dog again. Moving over to the corner of the room behind a big screen painted in an Asian motif, he stood hovering over a small bed containing a dark-haired, curly headed, sleeping toddler.

  “See ya later, kiddo,” he whispered as he reached forward to stroke the c
hild’s little hand. He stared for a moment, watching the tiny nostrils flare with each inhale. Ed smiled, then turned and left the room.

  * * *

  It wasn’t Ed’s idea to put the MEAN PEOPLE SUCK sticker on the back of the van. It was bad enough letting Tasha talk him into a Volkswagen. At least it was one of the newer models from the ’80s, not one of those painfully stereotypical hippie busses from the ’60s and ’70s. Since his move to Berkeley—much to his family’s and hometown friends’ surprise and dismay—the notion that he might be anything but a liberal-thinking man hadn’t once entered Ed’s mind. But the word “hippie” was just a bit too much for his tastes. He squirmed at any symbol that might place him in that particular category. He and Tasha had purchased the van locally. It came decorated with an array of colorful window stickers, which Ed promptly removed with a trusty razorblade.

  Unfortunately, the one decal that was particularly troublesome was affixed directly to the paint right smack in the middle of the rear hatch.

  What kind of lame jackass would put a sticker on the fucking paint? Ed had asked himself on several occasions. And a goddamned Phish sticker at that.

  Ed’s remedy for the situation, after a valiant but unsuccessful removal attempt with various carburetor cleaners and other nasty chemicals, was to paste a Fishbone sticker over the wretched blemish, thereby counterbalancing, at least in his own mind, any hippyish perceptions.

  The VW was a good van, though. It was always quite reliable and made for a good family vehicle. Ed never told his father about his purchase, knowing that the old man’s response would just increase the awkwardness of an already sensitive situation. Ed’s father had been a mechanic, and Ed had spent his youth listening to his dad’s negative commentaries about any automobile that wasn’t made in the good old USA. “Those gaw’damn Volkswagen drivers” were always a particular source of irritation for the old man.

  As usual, the van fired right up. A small initial puff of blue smoke from the exhaust reminded Ed that it might be time for a valve job. Throwing it into gear, he cruised through the streets of his modest West Berkeley neighborhood. He wore a big army coat and beanie cap to cut the chill on this late fall morning, but the van’s trusty heater was his savior.

  “God bless the Volkswagen heater,” he muttered as he cranked the fan on full blast. Ed had always been amazed at how fast the rig warmed up. The Germans clearly had Detroit beat in the automotive heater department.

  Chapter 6

  TERRY THE FLOWER GIRL

  Ed parked in front of a bookstore on Shattuck Avenue. His destination was Peet’s Coffee on Walnut. As he strolled, he observed the images around the area. He came upon the local flower cart where a young woman, Terry the flower girl, was setting up for the day. She arched back and stretched before bending over to pick up large bucket of gladiolas. Ed admired the seductiveness of the movement and became enthralled when her buttocks pointed toward him as she reached down.

  Terry was a fixture around Berkeley, and Ed had always had a soft crush on her. Before he was married to Tasha, he used to come to Peet’s in the mornings to socialize with the locals and to look at Terry. Ed was not the unfaithful type, but like most men on the planet, he found the urge to procreate that comes from millions of years of instinct hard to suppress.

  He imagined her nude, with her round white bum pointing up at him. He was fantasizing about what it would be like to kiss her soft cheeks when he heard a high-pitched staccato pulse in his ear. It was the alarm on his wristwatch. The sound startled Terry, who turned around quickly enough to catch Ed staring at her ass. Realizing he’d been caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar, Ed flushed with embarrassment.

  “Hey, Ed,” she said with a little smile.

  “S’up, Terry?”

  Walking past, Ed reached down and fumbled to turn off his watch alarm. He then continued on his way to the coffee shop.

  “Fucking watch,” he muttered to himself.

  Outside Peet’s, Ed was greeted by an array of colorful characters: bicyclists in full gear meeting for the big ride up into the hills, students sitting on steps across the street, an old Rasta man who had been there as long as anyone could remember, tradesmen, lounge-abouts, wanna-be hipsters. They were all present and somewhat accounted for, slurping away at their cups of warm brown liquid. The talk was of many things, some newsworthy and some not. From speculations about Ross Perot to the racially tense debates over O.J.’s recent acquittal to the latest flavor Cliff Bar, the air around Peet’s buzzed with caffeine-induced rhetoric.

  After saying his good mornings, Ed got his fresh brew and headed back out to the street. He walked kitty-corner toward his VW, doubling back to Terry, who was moving a rather large bucket of lilies. She let out a stressful moan in reaction to the weight.

  “Hey, Ed, what are you doing up so early on a weekend?” she spouted as she straightened her back.

  “I’m gonna go fishing with my brother.”

  “I didn’t even know you had a brother.”

  “Yeah. He’s older. My big bro.”

  “He live around here?” she asked as she arranged some flowers in a bucket.

  “Naw, he lives in El Sobrante.”

  “El Sobrante? Isn’t that out near Stockton?”

  “Stockton? Hell no. You don’t know where El Sobrante is?” He was mocking her now. He repeated the name in a pseudo-hick drawl, “Ol’ El Sob?”

  “Nope, can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Well, you’re not missing much.”

  “Where is it then?”

  “It’s about twenty-five minutes or so from here. North on 80. Actually, it’s just over the hill as the crow flies.”

  “The crow flies?” she laughed. “Damn, Ed, you sound just like my Missouri grandfather.”

  “Yep, I’m a regular old shit kicker.”

  Terry had known Ed for some time, but she suddenly realized that she didn’t really know much about his past. To her knowledge, neither did many of their common friends.

  “Is that where you’re from, El Sobrante?”

  “Yep, born and bred.” He didn’t like talking about El Sobrante much, in general. But this was Terry, and he liked talking to her. He took another slurp of coffee and continued. “It’s mellow—if you’re into the KKK.”

  “Really? It’s like that?”

  Ed chuckled at her reaction. “Naw, I’m just clowning you. It’s actually not a bad place to be if you’re a kid, I guess.” After pondering for a moment, he spoke again. “Too many rednecks for my taste. I had to get the hell out of there, man. Eighteen years was plenty for me.”

  “Sounds scary.”

  “Eh, ya know, it really ain’t that bad. In fact, it’s probably better now, more ‘integrated.’” He took a sip of coffee. “I just needed to step away. You know, hell, everybody trips off where they grew up. Know what I mean?”

  “Kinda, I suppose.”

  “Well, you grew up here in Berkeley. Good coffee, good tunes, people that don’t eat their dinner on trays in front of the TV.”

  “It couldn’t have been that bad,” she laughed.

  “Well, that may be a bit exaggerated.” He paused for a moment. “I’m actually kinda looking forward to going back to the ol’ stomping grounds. Hookin’ up with my big bro. Shit, I ain’t seen him in a couple years at least. Well, except for my dad’s funeral last month. But we didn’t hang or nothing.”

  “Oh, sorry about your dad.”

  “Cancer. Everybody’s dying of cancer these days.” Ed felt awkward talking about it. Death is always awkward.

  “It’s all those cell phones, I bet.”

  “Hell, my dad probably never even used a cell phone once in his life.” He paused to take another sip from his coffee, staring blankly at the sidewalk for a strong moment. He then looked up at Terry and half smiled. “Well, I’m out.”

  Ed turned to walk away. Terry stopped arranging the plants.

  “Hey, Ed?”

&n
bsp; He turned back, “Yeah.”

  She leaned over toward him. “You got any weed? I mean for sale.”

  “I didn’t know you still smoked.”

  “Sometimes. It’s good to have around if I get stressed.”

  “Naw, no bud right now. I can get you some ’shrooms, though,” he said with a sly grin.

  “God no. That’s all I need,” she laughed. “No pot at all? It’s midterms.”

  Ed reached into his jacket pocket. “Here. I got a shit-load of these things.” He pulled out a bag of mushrooms and dipped in to grab her a pinch. “Tasha’s uncle grows ’em out in Bolinas.”

  She shuddered. “Oooh, no thanks. I can’t stand the taste.”

  “Sure?” he asked, raising his brows.

  She pushed her hand out, gesturing him away. “Yeah. No, I just can’t. Thanks.”

  “All right.” He stuffed the bag back into his jacket. “Again, I’m out.”

  Ed leaned forward to give her a half hug and peck on the cheek.

  “Bye. Have fun,” she said, smiling.

  She had one of the best smiles in Berkeley, thought Ed. “Yep, it’s all about fun.”

  “Tell Tasha I said hi.”

  “Bye bye, girly girl,” he said as he turned and walked away. Terry watched him stroll down the sidewalk—imagining what he would look like nude.

  Chapter 7

  ARMAGEDDON TIME

  Ed dug through his ashtray as he drove down the boulevard and pulled out a fat roach. Looking at himself in the rearview mirror, he lit it and took a hit, then popped in a cassette. “Armageddon Time” by The Clash blared out of the speakers as he headed down University Avenue.