el-bagr
06-15-2006, 04:00 PM
Note that as I wrote this, the ****s are replaced by what I actually heard. ****ing censorship software, eh?
http://timefortuckerman.com/photopost/data/917/209breakwater.jpg
The water lapped over my dress shoes as I stood on the breakwater, one mile out into the harbor, with my back to the lighthouse. I thought about Trav.
The conference had lasted from two hours after sunrise until four hours after dark, more than enough time for mingling with the businessmen whom I was supposed to be. The circle of the moon rose over the tip of the breakwater that extended into the harbor. I had never seen the water as high as tonight; the combination of the month of rain and the spring tide brought the ocean into and onto the jetty. I heard the waves breaking within the granite blocks of the breakwater, and remembered the urchins and loons who called these rocks home.
One mile out from land, I reached the lighthouse. The beacon shone without cease, its rolling light split into four beams that chased each other around the night. I walked past the glow of the cigarette of the couple already sitting on the benches and draped myself on the steel railing on the side facing the moon. Water rippled its circle the moon into two hundred and sixteen speckles, each individually floating like fireflies trapped in glass. One hundred and one miles from home, I prayed.
Walking back around the lighthouse, I saw that another girl had joined the couple. Age was hard to see in the moonlight, but her voice was that of a twenty year-old. "Don't sit on my friend," she said. She reached down to the bench, and cradled something dark in the hand not holding her cigarette.
She was drunk. "You know what? This town's full of needle junkies," she lamented. She took a call on her cell phone from Scotty, who was about to pass out. She reminded Scotty that she had put the tequila behind the bush at the head of his driveway. No, she told me, she hadn't drunk any, though she did like to drink. But unlike anyone else in town, she wasn't a needle junky. Unlike her boyfriend, Courtney grew up in town, but she'd never been out here before. The other girl on the rocks, Morgan, had been out here for her marine biology class her sophomore year, before she started work. Her teacher had been focused on student interactions other that learning, but that wasn't why Morgan stopped going to school. She needed the money.
Courtney looked for a place to stub out her cigarette. Her mother was in landscaping, and had instilled in Courtney the ethic not to leave her butts behind in the world. Later this week, Courtney's mother would complete her patent filing; she'd invented a kind of plant glue. She used to work at the nursery, and they'd buy $600 plants; when a branch would break, they'd throw it out -- until Courtney's mother invented the natural plant glue. Morgan’s boyfriend Evan suggested duct tape, but the girls knew that his idea was inferior to Courtney's mom's all-natural solution. Morgan thought Courtney's mother would buy her that pink Cadillac with her millions, but Courtney knew better: it would all be spent on Lights of both kinds: Marlboro and Bud. Ten feet away, a seal rose and snorted three times.
Just in case she hadn't said it before, Courtney told me, "This town's so full of needle junkies. You can't trust no one. Folks'll say they don't use, but then you go and see them with bruises on their arm the next day."
Morgan nodded in the moonlight shadow. "You'd be surprised who does. Everyone."
"I don't," Evan interjected. "Tell me who."
"You'd be surprised who does. You'd be surprised," Morgan slurred with a shrug. "What’s it matter to you?” She lit another cigarette. “You know Hiram's a smackie."
Evan inhaled, inflating his chest. "Well, maybe that does matter to me."
"That matter to you? Yeah?" challenged Morgan.
Courtney continued looking across the harbor at the town. "We've got to get out of this **** town," Courtney urged. "Before we turn into needle junkies like the rest of them. There's just nothing to do here. Look at Trav."
Morgan looked at the dark object in Courtney's hand. "****ing fishermen."
"****ing fishermen," Courtney repeated. "Just like his father. Nothing else to do. God damn welfare town." She turned toward me. "You should see this place on the first of the month. Everybody buying their ****." She held this last word. "Shooting it in their arms."
"Just like his father. ****ing fisherman. It's ****ed up about Antonio, too," said Evan as he flicked his butt onto the granite below. "Just a ****ing kid, had to go and do that **** to himself."
Morgan inhaled twice, then flicked her butt away to the north. "You know what Trav's doing right now? He's passing a forty with Tupac, smoking a blunt."
"****ing ‘Pac," said Evan. "That's just his style. He and his dad've got their arms around Tupac, ****ing raging with the seals."
Courtney looked back across the breakwater toward the land one mile distant. "****ing sucks," she yelled at the land. "We're ****ing stuck out here. The water's come up."
The water had come up. A loon called from a thousand yards to our left, toward the smokestack on the fish pier. The breakwater was now wet for a long pitch fifty yards from the lighthouse. Waves from the open ocean to the right met wavelets from the harbor to the left at a point three-quarters of the way across the width of the stones. "We'll never get out of here. Trav, we're stuck." This last to the box in her left hand.
Courtney spun sharply toward me. "I don't have an imaginary friend or nothing," she said. "This is Trav."
"There gonna be a funeral?" Evan asked.
Courtney looked at her shoes. "They're spreading his ashes on the water, like his Dad's. Gonna float all the way to Vinalhaven. ****ing needle junkies."
The water splashed on the lighthouse's foundation. "This town's gonna kill us all. We're ****ing stuck out here."
A seal rose out of the silver, snorted three times, and sank noiselessly. "**** you, Rockport. **** you, you ****ing needle junkies. We gotta get out of here."
The moon rose through clouds. Waves came and went, climbed and climbed the stones. The wet patch on the granite spread. Only six hours until low tide, judging by the moon.
Back around the lighthouse I walked, down the skewed granite stairs, across the quarried stones to the water. At low tide, the top of the breakwater stood ten feet above the water. From what I could see, the water was now at least three inches deep over the top stones. Not ideal for my dress shoes.
Another set of waves rolled in from out to sea, joining the ripples from the harbor side. I walked back up the stairs. "You getting out of here?" asked Evan.
"Yeah, I am," I replied. "But I wanted to tell you: you can get out of here. I believe in you," I said. "And give my love to Trav. He's a good guy."
I had to step carefully to avoid the deep water between the granite blocks. The driest path was still six inches deep. As the water drained from my shoes on the far side, I turned toward the lighthouse and yelled back about the water.
I told them they could make it. I knew I could, but I wasn't sure that I believed that they’d be all right. I had passed the wet patch, and had only one mile to go across the water. Trav was fine, now -- in the water, with the seals, Tupac and his father. The others out at the lighthouse still had a ways to go.
http://timefortuckerman.com/photopost/data/917/209breakwater.jpg
The water lapped over my dress shoes as I stood on the breakwater, one mile out into the harbor, with my back to the lighthouse. I thought about Trav.
The conference had lasted from two hours after sunrise until four hours after dark, more than enough time for mingling with the businessmen whom I was supposed to be. The circle of the moon rose over the tip of the breakwater that extended into the harbor. I had never seen the water as high as tonight; the combination of the month of rain and the spring tide brought the ocean into and onto the jetty. I heard the waves breaking within the granite blocks of the breakwater, and remembered the urchins and loons who called these rocks home.
One mile out from land, I reached the lighthouse. The beacon shone without cease, its rolling light split into four beams that chased each other around the night. I walked past the glow of the cigarette of the couple already sitting on the benches and draped myself on the steel railing on the side facing the moon. Water rippled its circle the moon into two hundred and sixteen speckles, each individually floating like fireflies trapped in glass. One hundred and one miles from home, I prayed.
Walking back around the lighthouse, I saw that another girl had joined the couple. Age was hard to see in the moonlight, but her voice was that of a twenty year-old. "Don't sit on my friend," she said. She reached down to the bench, and cradled something dark in the hand not holding her cigarette.
She was drunk. "You know what? This town's full of needle junkies," she lamented. She took a call on her cell phone from Scotty, who was about to pass out. She reminded Scotty that she had put the tequila behind the bush at the head of his driveway. No, she told me, she hadn't drunk any, though she did like to drink. But unlike anyone else in town, she wasn't a needle junky. Unlike her boyfriend, Courtney grew up in town, but she'd never been out here before. The other girl on the rocks, Morgan, had been out here for her marine biology class her sophomore year, before she started work. Her teacher had been focused on student interactions other that learning, but that wasn't why Morgan stopped going to school. She needed the money.
Courtney looked for a place to stub out her cigarette. Her mother was in landscaping, and had instilled in Courtney the ethic not to leave her butts behind in the world. Later this week, Courtney's mother would complete her patent filing; she'd invented a kind of plant glue. She used to work at the nursery, and they'd buy $600 plants; when a branch would break, they'd throw it out -- until Courtney's mother invented the natural plant glue. Morgan’s boyfriend Evan suggested duct tape, but the girls knew that his idea was inferior to Courtney's mom's all-natural solution. Morgan thought Courtney's mother would buy her that pink Cadillac with her millions, but Courtney knew better: it would all be spent on Lights of both kinds: Marlboro and Bud. Ten feet away, a seal rose and snorted three times.
Just in case she hadn't said it before, Courtney told me, "This town's so full of needle junkies. You can't trust no one. Folks'll say they don't use, but then you go and see them with bruises on their arm the next day."
Morgan nodded in the moonlight shadow. "You'd be surprised who does. Everyone."
"I don't," Evan interjected. "Tell me who."
"You'd be surprised who does. You'd be surprised," Morgan slurred with a shrug. "What’s it matter to you?” She lit another cigarette. “You know Hiram's a smackie."
Evan inhaled, inflating his chest. "Well, maybe that does matter to me."
"That matter to you? Yeah?" challenged Morgan.
Courtney continued looking across the harbor at the town. "We've got to get out of this **** town," Courtney urged. "Before we turn into needle junkies like the rest of them. There's just nothing to do here. Look at Trav."
Morgan looked at the dark object in Courtney's hand. "****ing fishermen."
"****ing fishermen," Courtney repeated. "Just like his father. Nothing else to do. God damn welfare town." She turned toward me. "You should see this place on the first of the month. Everybody buying their ****." She held this last word. "Shooting it in their arms."
"Just like his father. ****ing fisherman. It's ****ed up about Antonio, too," said Evan as he flicked his butt onto the granite below. "Just a ****ing kid, had to go and do that **** to himself."
Morgan inhaled twice, then flicked her butt away to the north. "You know what Trav's doing right now? He's passing a forty with Tupac, smoking a blunt."
"****ing ‘Pac," said Evan. "That's just his style. He and his dad've got their arms around Tupac, ****ing raging with the seals."
Courtney looked back across the breakwater toward the land one mile distant. "****ing sucks," she yelled at the land. "We're ****ing stuck out here. The water's come up."
The water had come up. A loon called from a thousand yards to our left, toward the smokestack on the fish pier. The breakwater was now wet for a long pitch fifty yards from the lighthouse. Waves from the open ocean to the right met wavelets from the harbor to the left at a point three-quarters of the way across the width of the stones. "We'll never get out of here. Trav, we're stuck." This last to the box in her left hand.
Courtney spun sharply toward me. "I don't have an imaginary friend or nothing," she said. "This is Trav."
"There gonna be a funeral?" Evan asked.
Courtney looked at her shoes. "They're spreading his ashes on the water, like his Dad's. Gonna float all the way to Vinalhaven. ****ing needle junkies."
The water splashed on the lighthouse's foundation. "This town's gonna kill us all. We're ****ing stuck out here."
A seal rose out of the silver, snorted three times, and sank noiselessly. "**** you, Rockport. **** you, you ****ing needle junkies. We gotta get out of here."
The moon rose through clouds. Waves came and went, climbed and climbed the stones. The wet patch on the granite spread. Only six hours until low tide, judging by the moon.
Back around the lighthouse I walked, down the skewed granite stairs, across the quarried stones to the water. At low tide, the top of the breakwater stood ten feet above the water. From what I could see, the water was now at least three inches deep over the top stones. Not ideal for my dress shoes.
Another set of waves rolled in from out to sea, joining the ripples from the harbor side. I walked back up the stairs. "You getting out of here?" asked Evan.
"Yeah, I am," I replied. "But I wanted to tell you: you can get out of here. I believe in you," I said. "And give my love to Trav. He's a good guy."
I had to step carefully to avoid the deep water between the granite blocks. The driest path was still six inches deep. As the water drained from my shoes on the far side, I turned toward the lighthouse and yelled back about the water.
I told them they could make it. I knew I could, but I wasn't sure that I believed that they’d be all right. I had passed the wet patch, and had only one mile to go across the water. Trav was fine, now -- in the water, with the seals, Tupac and his father. The others out at the lighthouse still had a ways to go.