South of the Pumphouse (6 page)
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.
T
he 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.”
“Yeah? All right. What's the damage?” asked Earl, digging into his wallet.
Ong tallied the items on the register. “Let's see. Twenty-four dollars bait? And let's see. Three fifty. Three fifty. Five ninety-nine. Mmm? Three dollar. Three dollar. Mmmm. Forty-seven dollars thirty-seven cents.”
“What's the word? Anybody get 'em yesterday?” Earl asked as he handed over some cash.
“Mr. Dave on the Mud Hen said they got a bunch of shakers and one keeper just this side of the Pumphouse.”
“On grass shrimp?”
“No, he always fish mud shrimp,” Ong replied, handing over the change. “Most everybody in today are head for Richmond bridge.”
“What about during the week?”
“Pretty slow. Some action above the Sisters. My wife's brother got a seventy-eight-incher Thursday.”
Earl looked back as he headed toward the wood-framed screen door. “Yeah? Grass shrimp?”
Ong shook his head. “Mud shrimp.”
Arms full, Earl pressed his back to the door and rolled out. “Well, adios, Ong!”
“Adios, Earl! Goodbye. Thank you!”
Ed and Earl climbed back into the truck.
“Twenty-four dollars for bait?” asked Ed in amazement.
“Yep, twelve bucks a pound.”
“Damn!”
“Yep, usually puny fuckers too. I think ol' Ong's eatin' the big ones his self.”
“Damn,” grunted Ed as they pulled out and headed down the road.
E
arl and Ed arrived at the Richmond Marina boat ramp just as another boat was launching. Looking around, Ed was surprised by how much the marina had changed since he had last been there in his early teens. This particular ramp hadn't even existed in those days. It occupied the space where the bar for the old San Pablo Sportsman's Club once stood. Their father and both their uncles were club members, and they all had boats that were either docked in berths on the water or kept in dry storage on trailers in the gravel yard. What Ed remembered most about the place were the three massive amphibious airplanes that sat out on the point facing south toward the channel. The aircrafts, which had reportedly belonged to Howard Hughes, sat behind a cyclone fence just past their father's boat trailer. Ed remembered well the many hours he had sat staring at these old war birds as his father worked on the
Waterbed
, the family boat.
As soon as one other boat cleared the ramp and tied off toward the end of the dock, Earl and Ed prepared to launch.
“You remember what to do, bro?”
“Yep,” Ed answered as he grabbed the bowline.
Earl pulled forward and then backed down the ramp, smooth as could be. He rolled the trailer down until the tailpipe of his pickup was nearly submerged. Then, with a quick tap on the brake, the boat broke free of the trailer bunkers and started floating. Ed took up the slack and pulled her into the dock, first tying the bowline to the dock cleat and then securing the stern. He rested his foot on the boat's gunwale as she bobbled slightly against the rub-rail of the dock.
By this point, Earl had already parked the truck and was heading back toward the ramp.
“You remember to put the plug in?” asked Ed with a big grin.
“Bastard,” Earl muttered under his breath, and he then yelled out, “Ah, man, I forgot. Better get in there and stick your pecker in the drain hole so she don't sink.”
They both laughed.
Years earlier, the boys' father had let Earl take the family boat out on his own. It was just after Earl had gotten his driver's license, and he was so nervous about pulling a trailer that he had forgotten to put in the plug before they launched. Ed, who had been there at the time, remembered Earl getting halfway down the dock and then suddenly running back to the truck. Ed had turned to the boat to see the transom sitting lower and the deck carpet in the ass end slowly getting covered with water. Earl was able to pull the boat out in time, but that hadn't stopped Ed and Donny from badgering him about it for some months after.
As Earl headed back down the dock, Ed took a good look at his brother's boat, a twenty-foot Skipjack with a six-cylinder Mercury stern drive. Their dad's boat had been a Glastron, about the same size, but Skipjacks were the ultimate back in the day, and probably still were, by Ed's reckoning. He could remember when Red bought this particular boat new. It had been the talk of all his father's friends. Funny that Earl should finally end up with it.
“Lucky bastard,” he remembered his father saying a number of times after hearing of Red's purchase. “I wish my wife would let me buy a new Skipjack.” More likely than not, the decision not to buy new boat at the time had more to do with a lack of funds than their mother's disapproval. Ed couldn't remember his family ever purchasing a brand new anything, be it a car or boat or washing machineâeven their television had been secondhand.
Ed suddenly became aware of a rumbling noise in the distance. The sound had probably been there for a while, but he had been too preoccupied with his thoughts to notice. As the rumble grew louder, Ed realized that it was some sort of vehicle approaching. It sounded like a motorcycle, but not the healthy hum of a modern performance bike or the deep, throaty resonance of a latter-day Harley Davidson. It was more like a cross between a large riding lawn mower and a hopped-up VW Baja Bug. All at once, “it” came into view, a bastardized rigid-framed chopper with a four-cylinder inline Japanese engine with straight pipes running down the side.
The bike pulled up to the ramp and revved a few times, farting and popping as it settled back into its labored idle. The din from the engine was damn near excruciating, and the thought crossed Ed's mind that anyone who would ride such an obnoxious machine must surely be an ass. Then it hit him. With a chill in his backbone and a gurgle in his gut, he winced, suddenly remembering something. Things had been going so wellâthe rich memories and nostalgia for the past, the morning's events blossoming into what promised to be a fine day. But the past, Ed reckoned, can also bite you on the backside. This wasn't just some random jackass on a gross, noise-polluting penis-extension of a cheap motorbike. This was none other than Donny Vowdy, one person who Ed could have happily gone the rest of his life without seeing again.
“There's Donny,” acknowledged Earl.
“Shit,” Ed muttered to himself.
Donny came down the dock carrying a shopping bag and a cheap two-piece spinning rod and reel. He sauntered like a cocky rooster as he approached. He was lanky, but had a lazy gut that pushed at the bottom of his flannel shirt and partially covered the brass Budweiser belt buckle that pretended to hold up his tight stovepipe-legged stonewash jeans. He wore work boots and a waist jacket with a breast patch that sported the Raybestos brake pad logo. On his head was a black cap with gold leaf on the billâ“scrambled eggs,” as the El Sobrante boys called them. He had dirty, grease-stained fingers with black under his nails, and, like Earl, his eyes were sunken and his face was pasty and gaunt. He flicked his cigarette toward the boat as he approached.
“What's up, dick! Almost left me, didn't ya? You fucker!”
“We was tryin',” Earl retorted. “You remember my bro, don't ya?”
“Pee Wee!! Is that you? Damn, boy, I must be gettin' old. Last time I saw you, you was shittin' green.”
“S'up, Don?” said Ed flatly.
“
S'up
? Well listen to ol' Pee Wee talkin' like fuckin' MC Hammer and shit.
Sss'uupp
?”
“Get in the damn boat,” said Earl.
Donny passed his gear to Ed and then stepped into the boat.
“Good to see ya, Pee Wee.” Donny shook Ed's hand roughly, then turned and slapped Earl on the back. “What's up, you old bag of shit?”
“Not much. Just waitin' on you, boy,” Earl grinned.
Donny jumped back out of the boat.
“Hey, can you hold up a minute? I rushed out this mornin' so damn quick I forgot to blow the mud out of my ass.” He headed for a moment up the ramp to the bathroom, then stopped and turned to Earl. “You comin', Earl?” He tapped the cigarette box in his breast pocket.
“Sure,” answered Earl, hopping out. “Watch the boat there, will ya, bro?”
“No problem.”
