South of the Pumphouse

by Les Claypool

  “Yep.”

  Stepping up to the dispenser on the workbench, Earl pumped some hand cleaner into his greasy palms.

  “You still hanging out with that fucking guy?”

  “He’s just a good ol’ boy.”

  “Good ol’ dipshit’s more like it,” Ed muttered.

  “He ain’t that bad. Ya gotta know him,” Earl said, rubbing his hands together as the abrasive cream squirted between his fingers, making wet farty sounds.

  “Shit. I knew him well enough. He was such a dick to me when I was a kid. Man, you don’t even know.”

  Ed remembered Don Vowdy clearly, though he hadn’t thought of him in years. Donny had been Earl’s best friend as long as Ed could remember. He had also been a source of considerable torment to Ed throughout his childhood.

  “He’d flick his lit cigarettes at me when you guys used to sneak them from Dad out in the tree fort.”

  “Eh … it builds character,” Earl answered with a shrug.

  The brothers walked from the garage into the kitchen. Earl peeled a handful of paper towels from the hanging roll.

  “Yeah, well, if I don’t have to see that guy ever again, it’ll be fine with me.”

  “Well,” Earl paused, rubbing the gunk from his hands, “I hate to tell ya, there’s a chance he might be comin’ with us today.”

  “You’re shitting me. I thought it was just us two!”

  “Well, he knows I go out every Sunday, and sometimes he just meets me down at the ramp.”

  “Shit, Earl. I thought it was gonna just be the two bros chilling, having a good time trying to catch a fish or two.”

  “Don’t worry. I ain’t seen him all week. It’s fifty-fifty he won’t show up.” Earl smiled, threw the wad of greasy paper towels into the bin, then put his hand on Ed’s shoulder. “Cool out, Ed. It’s just ol’ Don-ski. Besides, we’re all grown-up now.”

  “Yeah, right,” Ed muttered skeptically. He looked around and suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen Earl’s wife yet. “Hey, where’s Denise?”

  Earl stared blankly at Ed. “Oh, sorry, Ed. Did you want some coffee or somethin’?” He pointed to the empty coffee maker.

  “Naw, I had mine already this morning.”

  Earl looked at Ed and then threw one hand in the air. “She stormed out of here yesterday to stay with her mom. Ya know, Ed, it’s the same old shit. I’m always the bad guy.”

  “Yeah, I hear ya.” A perfunctory response—Ed had no desire to dig into that can of worms.

  Earl walked down the hallway, peeling off his T-shirt. Ed wandered back into the living room.

  “I can’t hardly talk to her anymore, Ed,” Earl bellowed from back in the bedroom, as he dug through his drawer for a clean shirt.

  Ed casually poked about the room looking at various pictures, videos, magazines, and cheap knickknacks. He stopped to examine an old Nagel print from the ’80s hanging prominently on the far wall and chuckled to himself.

  “My God, I haven’t seen one of these in years.”

  Continuing through the room, Ed closely eyed the mess on the coffee table. He ran his finger across the glass surface, lifted his hand to his face, and stared at the white powder on his finger.

  “You’re not still snorting that crank shit, are you, bro?” he shouted.

  “Hell no,” Earl responded on his way back down the hallway. He entered the living room wearing a fresh T-shirt and holding a button-down flannel shirt in his hand. Ed turned to him as he came into the room and pointed his powdered finger in his brother’s direction.

  “That’s Denise’s shit,” Earl blurted. “She gets all tweaked up on that shit for days. Then PMS sets in, and I catch all kinds of hell. I tell ya, Ed, I can’t talk to her.”

  “Bummer,” Ed stated flatly. “Well, what are we gonna do about lunch?”

  As they headed to the door, Earl checked for his keys and wallet. “They got Rel’s sandwiches and chips and shit down at the bait shop.”

  “I don’t know, bro. I ain’t into them pre-made mystery-meat sandwiches.”

  “It’s fishin’ food, Ed. Just like the old days.”

  “Yep, them good ol’ days.”

  They both chuckled.

  “C’mon, Eddy boy, let’s get you a big fat stur-gee-own!”

  They left the house together, slamming the front door behind them. As they walked off the porch and down the driveway, Ed felt the morning sun on his face. Late fall mornings in El Sobrante could be quite pleasant by his recollection, and this particular moment reminded him of the boyhood days when he and Earl would set off at this same time every weekday for their walk to school. He remembered how they used to stop in front of the lime-green house on the far corner of their street to throw their lunch bananas onto Joe Walker’s roof. Neither of them much liked bananas; nor did they like Joe Walker. Ed couldn’t remember why, but for some reason, he and Earl had always had it in for Joe Walker. Perhaps it was because the guy, a fairly young bachelor who seemed to always be driving a new car, kept his yard impeccably clean. He even painted his driveway on a regular basis. The boys’ father used to mutter sarcastic remarks when the family drove past Joe’s house. Joe actually came to their house once and confronted their father after an unknown vandal had practiced slides with baseball cleats on his perfectly groomed front lawn in the middle of the night.

  It wasn’t until they reached their teens and Joe became a good source of potential income in their weed-pulling venture that they were able to put their differences aside and work together for mutual benefit. At that point, Joe Walker suddenly became the nicest guy in the neighborhood in their eyes.

  Earl and his best friend Donny had started hanging out at Joe’s on a regular basis one summer, mainly because Joe would let them smoke and would buy them beer. Ed had been too young for such things; at least that’s what Earl told him. But he enjoyed hearing the tales, and he looked forward to the day when he too could indulge in the finer things with the older guys.

  Ed would never have the chance to indulge himself at Joe Walker’s, though. That same summer, when Earl and Donny were spending their time at Joe’s, rumors started to spread about Joe and his personal tastes. One day, Donny claimed that a drunk Joe had asked him if he could touch his cock. There were no other witnesses. Donny, of course, claimed that he had refused in disgust and “kicked that faggot in the balls” before running out of the house.

  That was the end of the good times with Joe. After that, the vandalism on his house grew to dramatic proportions. It wasn’t long before Joe’s lawn was host to one of those infamous fertilizer cross burnings. Though he didn’t move away, Joe was never again seen outside his house or around the neighborhood. Strangely, his yard remained somehow impeccably maintained, inspiring childhood tales of little Oompa Loompa–like men working on the yard in the middle of the night.

  Chapter 11

  DAS BOOT

  You get a new boat?”

  They walked to the end of the driveway.

  “Naw, same one. This is Red’s old boat, remember?”

  “Mmmm. I thought Red had a Pipestone.”

  “Nope. You’re thinkin’ of Al’s boat. That thing was a hunk of shit.”

  “I always thought that boat was pretty cool. It had all that sparkly orange on the sides. Kinda had that old dune buggy, Brady Bunch thing going on.”

  They reached Earl’s boat and started uncovering it.

  “That thing rode so damn rough you’d get the shit beat out of ya every time you tried to go anywhere in it. No way could ya take it out in the ocean,” said Earl.

  “You hit the ocean much this year?”

  “Aw, man, I don’t even want to talk about it. The best damn salmon bite in seven years and my boat was in the shop.”

  “Bummer. What was the problem?”

  Earl told the story as they rolled the cover off the boat. “Well, I start hearin’ this clunkin’ sound when I’m runnin’, ya know. CLUNKA-CLUNKA-CLUNK. I’m thinkin’, must be U-joi
nts. So I tear it down, change the U-joints, put it back together. Still: CLUNKA-CLUNKA-CLUNK. So I call up old Wayne down at W&R Marine, and he says, ‘Sounds like the gimbal bearing to me.’ So I tear it down again, change the gimbal bearing. Put it all back together. Everything’s fine. So me and my buddy Gus, we head out one day kinda late just to test her on out, maybe drop a line or two. We’re headin’ for the Golden Gate, about a quarter-mile from it. Then all of a sudden: CRUNCH-ZING! The most god-awful sound you ever heard. She wouldn’t go forward or back. The damn lower drive shaft broke. Had to get towed into Sausalito.”

  “That sucks.”

  “Hell yeah, it sucked. Old Wayne had to rebuild the whole bottom end. Cost me a fuckin’ nut. Took all damn summer, too.” Earl paused for a moment, shaking his head. “Of course, everybody’s knockin’ the shit out of the salmon and braggin’ to me about it.”

  “Why didn’t you go with someone else?”

  “Eh, it’s not as fun for me. Most these guys like to troll. I hate trolling. Noisy nasty shit. Bores the hell out of me. Guys have to use them big-ass poles. No thanks. I’m a moochin’ man. Light gear, light gear.”

  “Yeah, but it’s gotta be better than sitting around all summer.”

  “Eh, Denise had me rebuildin’ that retaining wall out back. So I had plenty to do. It just ain’t no fun goin’ out when you know you got a boat sittin’ in the shop suckin’ at your wallet.”

  “Yeah, you know what Dad always said.”

  Earl chimed in knowingly before Ed could finish: “A boat’s a hole in the water you throw money into.”

  “Yeah, I know,” added Earl with a grin. “But Ed, I gots to have my boat!”

  They both laughed and continued working on getting things ready. Earl brought the gear for the day out of the garage: fishing poles, tackle box, ice chest, gaff. Ed had forgotten how much equipment it took to catch a fish. Earl backed his truck up to the tongue of the trailer, and Ed cranked the jack down to lower it onto the ball hitch. They climbed into the cab and drove off.

  Chapter 12

  TINY TUNAS

  Ed peered around the cab of the pickup as they cruised down the road. An older Ford, though not as old as the one their father used to drive, it reminded Ed of days rolling around with a boat in tow, heading for the Richmond Marina to chase fish on the bay. The boys used to seek all kinds of game throughout the seasons. In the spring, it was halibut in the East Bay and stripers in the flats or by the rock pile. In the summer, it was salmon in the ocean. In the winter, it was the granddaddy diamondback sturgeon.

  “You guys been getting ’em?” asked Ed.

  “Eh, lots a little shakers. It’s been pretty slow. All that rain last week should stir ’em up, though. Red got him an oversize last Thursday.”

  “Oversize? What the hell is that?”

  “Shit, it has been awhile since you been out,” Earl sniggered with a sideways gaze. “You can’t keep sturgeon over seventy-two inches long. That’s the law. It’s been that way for years now.”

  “Why not?”

  Earl, his mind on the slow-moving car in front of them, didn’t answer.

  Ed asked again, “Why can’t you keep ’em over seventy-two inches?”

  “They figure they’re old breeders, I guess. It’s not like it used to be, bro. We used to go out and get ’em. Remember? You’d go sturgeon fishin’ and catch sturgeon. Now? Shit, I went out every Sunday last winter and only boated three keepers. So now they’re comin’ down and regulatin’. It’s a good idea, I guess.” Earl paused and then continued, “They don’t taste so good when they get that big and old anyway. Remember that 300-pounder Uncle Pete caught when we was kids?”

  “Oh yeah.”

  “Lots of meat, but it tasted kind of funny. Remember?”

  “Mmmm. I don’t remember the meat.”

  “Yeah, you were pretty young.”

  They drove through town and out onto the parkway. Ed had heard about the parkway, but this was the first time that he had actually been on it. In the old days, they had to get on the freeway and then exit east of the marina, driving down Cutting Boulevard through the ghettos of Richmond. The parkway had been completed just a few years earlier to connect Highway 80 with the San Rafael Bridge. It was a raised road that routed over some of the poorer neighborhoods and streets. Ed remembered the days when he, his brother, and their father would take the back roads, most of them dirt, that fingered off the main highway to the dump or the wrecking yards that his father liked to frequent. He pondered quietly as he stared out the window.

  Out of the blue, he asked Earl, “Hey, does Denise still make those cool little fish-shaped sandwiches?”

  “The tiny tunas?” Earl replied.

  “Yeah! The tiny tunas. Ha! Those things were great! With the little olive eyeballs. She still make those?”

  “I get ’em damn near every day in my lunch box,” answered Earl with a tinge of disdain.

  “Ah, man, I love those things. They’re all flaky and good. I remember in college, me and some buddies had been smoking some blond hash that a friend of ours brought back from Amsterdam. I got to talking about the tiny tunas, and it got everybody hungry. I tried to make ’em with some white bread, but it didn’t taste near as good. I didn’t have a fish cookie-cutter, neither. I used this frog-shaped ashtray. They actually looked cool; tasted kinda funky, though. We all had the munchies so bad that it didn’t really matter.”

  Both Ed and Earl laughed.

  “Where the hell did she learn to make those things?”

  “She got the recipe off a box of Bisquick, I think.” Earl paused for a moment. “Yep, she can hella cook, that gal. Can hella eat, too. She keeps that butt big and round, just how I like!”

  They both laughed again for a moment, then sat silent.

  “You worried about her?”

  “Whatcha mean?”

  “I don’t know. Is she gone?”

  Earl looked at Ed for a moment and then turned his eyes back toward the road before answering. “Naw. Shit, she’ll be back. I just probably won’t be gettin’ any tiny tunas for a while.”

  They both chuckled halfheartedly. Ed returned to looking out the window, watching for the old haunts along the way.

  Chapter 13

  JOHNSON’S BAIT

  The truck pulled into a driveway that Ed had seen on many occasions past, the driveway of his father’s favorite bait and tackle shop. As they slowed to a stop in the dirt and gravel, Ed exclaimed, “Good to see old Johnson’s still open.”

  “Yeah, it’s still here, but don’t get too excited. It ain’t like it used to be.” Earl shut off the engine.

  “Whatcha mean?”

  “Well, you remember ol’ Henry, don’t ya?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, he had a stroke a few years back. Screwed him all up. He couldn’t talk for a while; paralyzed his whole left side. His kid took charge of the shop.”

  “His kid?” asked Ed, trying to think back. “You mean that little fat kid that used to hang out down at Lucky Lanes?”

  “Yeah, well that little fat kid grew up to be a big fat dipshit. You’d think after all those years of hangin’ round the bait shop, he might have learned somethin’ about the business. But all he did was fuck the place up. It got to where you couldn’t buy a bag of anchovies, let alone a pound of grass shrimp from the place. I think he snorted up most of the profits. Nice enough guy. He just didn’t know shit. Anyways, the place went down the toilet, and the bank sold it off to some Vietnamese.” Earl stepped out of the truck and continued speaking to Ed over the hood. “They do an okay job, but I think whatever they don’t sell, they pawn off to the Hunan House as prawns.”

  “That’d be some pretty small prawns,” Ed chuckled.

  “Well, you ain’t been to Hunan House in a while, neither,” said Earl as they entered the bait shop.

  Behind the counter sat an older Asian couple with their teenage son.

  Earl piped up, “Hey, Ong, how goes it?�
�

  “Very good. How are you today, Earl?” Ong, the father, was always happy to see Earl.

  “So far, so good, Ong. So far, so good. How’s the grass shrimp lookin’ today, bud?”

  “Good! Just came in half-hour ago.”

  “Yeah? All righty. Two pounds there, Ong.” Earl headed toward the cooler, which held a modest selection of beer, sodas, and pre-made sandwiches. “C’mon, let’s check out some grub.” He opened the sliding door and asked Ed, “What kind of beer you want?”

  “What they got?

  “Ah, just about everything. Bud, Miller, Coors.”

  “No imports?”

  “They got Michelob.”

  “That’s it?”

  “It’s a bait shop, Ed.”

  Ed reached into the cooler. “You get what you want, bro. I’m gonna grab me a couple of these Fosters.”

  “All right there, bro, I’m gettin’ some Silver Bullet.”

  “Coors, huh?” Ed muttered with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Good beer.”

  “Whatever, bro.”

  Earl reached in and pulled out a shrink-wrapped package. “Sandwich?” he asked.

  “Oh, dude, not them damn triangle sandwiches.”

  “Well, you could always get a burrito.”

  Ed shuddered in mock disgust. “Ooooeerr, no thanks.”

  “C’mon, Ed. It’s good stuff. Puts hair on your peter,” chuckled Earl.

  Grabbing a large bag, Ed announced, “I’ll just have some chips.”

  “You sure? You gonna get awful hungry out there. I’ll grab a couple of roast beefs for ya.”

  “Grab ’em for you. I’m not eating that shit. Even if I did eat meat, I wouldn’t eat that crap.” Looking around, he spied some Oreos. “I’ll have some of these, though.”

  Ed stepped back up to counter with the bag of cookies.

  Earl set his items on the counter as he beckoned to Ong, “Let me see them shrimp.” He looked into the box and poked around with his index finger. “Mighty puny there, Ong.”

  “Yes, but very lively. I give you two and a quarter pounds for two-pound price.”