Dockside (2016 rewrite)

"Investment banker, lawyer."

"Sounds more my type!" Ted said as he guffawed, obviously thinking the idea amusing.

"Really? Not mine; at least not in a long time."

"Ah, well. I hope you're enjoying yourself this evening. Is the food up to par?"

"Excellent, really. You should be proud..."

"I found her in France a couple of years ago. Avignon. She was famous there, quite popular. I simply had to have her. In fact, I opened this restaurant, just for her."

"Very considerate of you."

"Quite. Well, stay as long as you like. If I don't see you again, do drop in some time." He turned and fled to the girl in the corner, kissed her fiercely and then left the restaurant with her, tossing off departing goodbyes as he fled.

I stood and watched in a kind of mild shock while all this happened and was getting ready to leave when the chef, Michelle, came out. She looked around the restaurant, then at me, before she walked over to my corner.

"Did he leave?"

"Hm-m? Oh, Ted, you mean? Yes, I believe so."

It was odd. She was neither angry nor sad, more resigned, really, to a simple fact of life. I couldn't imagine what she felt. Humiliation, perhaps, but how angry I would feel? There was really no way I could imagine suppressing so much anger, at such a blatantly public and brutal act of betrayal.

But did I see a bit of a tear welling up in her eye? No?

"Well, perhaps I'd best be getting along," I said somewhat uneasily.

"So, you live on your boat? In the marina?"

"Yes. Yes I do, right below that window," I said, pointing.

"I have never been on a boat. Is it nice?"

"I, well yes, it can be. And what do you mean, you've never been on a boat. Never?"

"No, never. I can not even swim. I grew up away from the sea."

"Ah."

"Perhaps I could come by some day and you could show me? Your boat?"

"Yes, sure. I'll be here, 'til March, as a matter of fact. Drop by any time."

She held out her hand and I took it: "Well, it was nice to meet you, but I must now settle the kitchen."

"Good night," I said. I watched her as she turned, and it was as if I could feel her misery in the air all around the room. It was complete, total, the kind of desolation you feel when you've made a wrong choice and know it; when you've screwed yourself and you know there's no way to make things right. It was sad, and as I watched her walk away I felt I was watching a nasty tide turn -- and roll in unannounced.

Yet she looked dark, cold, and dangerous, and I was not unhappy to walk out into this dark and stormy night.

+++++

An electrician was due to arrive first thing the next morning, but by ten he was a no-show. I had been puttering around the dock cleaning up after the storm, and had a long green garden hose strung out to a tap, and was up on deck filling the water tanks. I heard footsteps, then I heard her voice dockside.

"Hello."

I turned, saw Michelle standing not five feet away. "Hi there."

"Quite a storm, I think?"

"Ah. Yes, a rough one."

"Nice looking. This boat."

"Ah." I was, as you can plainly tell, giving her my best imitation of an erudite, loquacious imbecile. Comes naturally, or so I'm told. Ask my wife.

"So? Is it alright? I see it now?"

"Ah, yes, indeed."

If she'd just pardon me while I pulled my head out of my ass.

I climbed over the deck, gave her my hand and helped her up, then led the way back to the cockpit and gave her my hand again while she clambered down to the wheel. Already her eyes were already round as saucers. I was just guessing here, but had I forgot deodorant that morning? Mouthwash? Forgotten underwear that morning, perhaps, and my zipper was down?

"And you have never been on a boat before?"

"Me? No? I think I told you, I cannot even swim."

"Ah, yes."

"How many people does it takes to sails a boat like thees?"

"Oh, it's usually just me out there."

She looked at me like I was mad. Hell, she was probably right on that score.

"Why?" she said. "Not how. Why?"

"When I figure that one out, I'll let you know." I gave her my best 'I'm a tough guy' grin, sure now that there wasn't a body odor issue.

She smiled, but she wasn't buying it. Her eyes were clouded by another, less pleasant thought. "Sounds lonely," she said quite softly.

"It has moments of that, yes." I looked at her for an awkward moment, not really sure what to say. "So. Down below, is it?" I led off down the companionway and she followed; when she got below she looked around at all the wood and brass and the rows of instruments and screens over the chart table and she just shook her head.

"It looks complicated," she said as she crossed to the chart table. "Is all this stuff for finding your way?"

"Ideally, yes. When I remember how it works. I think, however, the main purpose is to impress visitors. How are they doing, by the way?"

She smiled again. "You are something like a -- oh, what is this word -- like a smart-ass, no?"

"Yes indeed, but only on the Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays."

"I see," she said. She had a nice laugh. Honest, sweet. "So I have found you on your day, then, yes?"

It was my turn to laugh, and hell, maybe I did, but I was so nervous I could hardly talk. Beautiful women do that to me.

"So, you will show me around?"

"Ah." I looked around like I was a stranger here myself. "Yes, well, this is the galley..."

"The what? Isn't this the keetchen?"

"Yes indeed, my mistake." I walked forward a bit. "This area is called the saloon . . ."

"You mean, like Dodge City? Cowboy type saloon?"

"Same word, yes, only no cowboys. No room for horses." Further forward was my part of the boat. Big berth on the right, cabinets all along the left side of the hull, a big head and shower forward. "This is my bunk. Where I sleep."

Her eyes were wide again. "Not bad. Wow."

"Wow. Yes. That's exactly what I said when I first saw it. Wow."

She poked her way into the head. "A shower!" She almost squealed. It was kinda cute, really, the way she made little noises.

"There's another one aft -- uh, back this way."

I led her back to the keetchen. Opposite was a door that led into another head and stateroom; I opened the door and now she almost pushed her way past; she went in and I heard her shout: "No way! Font-tast-eek! This is so cool!"

I was -- meanwhile -- doing what all middle aged men do when confronted by the backside of a cute woman half their age. I was checking out her superstructure and landing gear and, frankly, admiring the view. And of course she turned around right then. I think at that point my eyes were burning holes I her ankles.

I think, too, this was perhaps the moment she began to feel more than a little self-conscious. Alone, on a stranger's boat, checking out the bedrooms.

Blushing like a fire hydrant, I turned away. "Can I fix you something to drink," I said.

"Maybe I cause you too much trouble. I should go now. Thanks for the tour."

I helped her off the boat and she took off.

Didn't turn back, either.

"Ah," I said.

The electrician turned up around noon.

+++++

My brother-in-law and his wife called and told me they were coming for a visit later that week, just as I was settling into marina life, London-style. Pete had always been close to his sister, too close for comfort, actually, and I think he kept in touch with his anger for her by staying in touch with me. Claire and I weren't separated, not in a legal sense anyway; we'd finally just gone our separate ways after I'd found out she was enjoying herself with someone else for about the third time in as many months, and that was that. Both our families were having a difficult time with our looming dissolution, but none more so than Pete. I had to be careful, keep an eye on the Jack Daniels when he was around, and an even closer eye on the little Bible that always seemed to be stashed in a coat pocket. When he got to wallowing in bourbon and musing about things of an animal nature, Pete could get out of hand in a hurry. Start baptizing strangers in parking lots, real Elmer Gantry stuff -- a one man revival meeting. As a consequence of this endearing behavior, I always looked forward to seeing him, and just the thought of him with Bible in hand still makes my hemorrhoids twitch.

Anyway, I'd planned to take them 'round to a few museums, maybe on a couple of day trips out to Bath and up to Cambridge, take in a show or two -- the usual tourist routine, I suppose. On the day of their arrival I took the Underground over to Paddington and met them when they came-in on the Heathrow Express, and we took a cab back to the marina. I'd wanted them to stay on-board but Thank The Lord they wouldn't have it, so I'd found them a room in the Tower Hotel overlooking the marina. I dropped them off and told them how to get to the boat, then left to give them time to get over their jet-lag.

They came over for a late lunch; I had promised to make Pete my Vermont cheddar cheese soup, which, for some odd reason he thinks is the best thing in the world, and was just serving soup to them when there came a knock on the hull.

I went up to see which mechanic was showing up late, and there she was. Michelle.

She was holding a couple of flowers in a little bud vase, and she handed it up to me.

"Sorry," she said, "for being such a prude." She was looking down, then I guess she heard Pete come up. I suspect when she saw his scowling face she decided to catch the next train to Leeds or something, 'cause she took right off.

I turned and shrugged; hell, even I wanted to run when I saw the puritanical scowl on his face -- like God in one of those Charlton Heston movies. All shaking and red-faced, trembling like a kettle on full boil. I'm not sure about this, you understand, but in my experience when someone shakes like that it has something to do with hemorrhoids and too much red pepper.

"Who was that?" Pete had on his best, most fierce Grand Inquisitor look, and was using his well practiced Chief Prosecutor's voice to full effect.

"You know, Pete, I don't have the slightest fucking idea."

Man, can that son-of-a-bitch scowl.

+++++

So. As you might imagine, lunch went well.

Becky or Peggy or whatever this wife's name was (she is/was, if I remember correctly, number five on what is, let me just say for the record, a rather long and as yet undistinguished list) thought it very odd that I'd accept flowers from a girl -- yes, a young girl! -- whose name I didn't even know! That just isn't done, this airhead told me reprovingly, then they launched into an hour long diatribe about keeping true to my marriage despite circumstances, and how shocking it was for them to learn I was whoring around all over Europe. Did I mention that Pete is a Deacon in his church, one of those Suthren Baptist type institutions so well known for their Christian tolerance and charity?

Can you feel the Love?

I'd had about enough of both of them by this point, and was getting a little annoyed. But would they stop? No. So I jumped in, tried to tell them how I'd met this girl...

"And you don't even know her name?!" Becky/Peggy asked/scolded after I finished my tale, finishing with showing the poor woman around the boat.

Sinner! The implication hung in the air like a lead balloon.

And I was getting, well, mad.

"Hm-m, you know what, if she'd hung around here a little longer, I think I might have been able get a blow job from her. But the poor thing had the good sense to leave. Sorry."

I have never been accused of being well-mannered towards the overly religious, at least not knowingly so. And, well, even my dear wife had never been able to tolerate sanctimonious assholes, and she'd long considered Pete to be among the worst.

So, when Pete said: "Now see here!" in his booming, preachy voice, then "How dare you speak to Becky/Peggy in that tone of voice!"...

...I found it ever so easy, in a much kinder, gentler way, to say: "Ya know, Becky/Peggy, I've always wondered what it would be like to drill you right up that sweet little ass of yours..."

I'm just guessing here, but I think my words elicited the intended response: "Harumph! Come on Becky/Peggy, let's get out of here -- NOW!"

"What?" I said as they grumbled up the companionway, "You're not staying for dessert?"

Pete whacked his head on the boom when he stood up. He was still cussing when they disappeared into the hotel. Life is good, ya know.

My week was suddenly wide open, and it felt, I don't know -- nice?

I might even stoop to saying I felt like Martin Luther King: Lawdy, Lawdy! Gawd Almighty! Free At Last!

Oh, Happy Days!

+++++

I was up in the cockpit working on a corroded LPG fitting later that afternoon when, of course, Pete came by acting all apologetic, and he told me they had no right to judge me after what I'd been through with his sister, they had no cause to say what they'd said. He seemed awfully sorry.

"You're right, Pete. You didn't. As a matter of fact, even if I'd had wet, sloppy sex with that woman, it wouldn't be anybody's business but mine, and, well, hers -- I guess, but as things stand right now, nothing, nothing at all has happened."

"I know, I know..."

"But the fact of the matter is, Pete, I've been lusting after the poor creature ever since I first laid eyes on her. My wife fucked around on me, not me on her. I didn't, not once. Is that clear? You're family, Pete, always will be as far as I'm concerned, but I don't want to see your face the rest of the day. Alright?"

Perhaps because I'm ten years older than Pete, or perhaps because I could still knock him off his flat feet any day of the week, whatever, he seemed chastened. I gave him tickets to the theater I'd already purchased and bid them a good evening, and he walked off with his tail between his legs.

I felt better, and I felt like shit.

+++++

My head and chest were down in the lazarette -- my legs and butt sticking straight up toward high noon -- when I heard her voice again, maybe an hour later.

"Hello. Are you busy?"

Let's be clear here: upside down in a dark hole, wrench in one hand, flashlight in the other, screwdriver in mouth, sweat in eyes...does that qualify as busy, or not?

"M-m-g-g-mmmph-nn-ploowee," I said in my usual, sophisticated manner.

"What?"

Sound of screwdriver falling from mouth, then: "Oh, Lord no, not at all. What can I do for you?"

"Can we talk?" She sounded quite unsure of herself. Then: "Is that man gone?"

I might have said something witty and dry, but it was rapidly dawning on me that I was seriously stuck. Head down in hole, ass waving around like a flag in the breeze stuck. "Uh. Ah, I. Well, I. Uh, could you give me a hand up here?"

"What?"

"Uh. I think I'm stuck. Could you give me a hand?"

She was, it turned out, remarkably sure-footed, and quite strong too. I think within fifteen seconds she was beside me and I had yanked me up and out of the hatch. I was gasping in shock, too. From the sunlight, yes, and from the fact I wasn't going to die with my ass hanging out so everyone in the marina could have a nice laugh while heading out for a curry.

"Now I know what the rabbit feels like," I managed to say.

"Pardon?" (I just love the way that sounds. Really. When the French say it, it sounds like par-doe, but there's usually a hint of either real confusion or withering scorn in the mix, too. Fascinating. Really.)

"When the magician pulls the rabbit out of the hat. By the ears."

"Oh, oui, yes. You had me concerned."

"You were concerned? Really? You should have been down in the hole with me. That was concern..."

She chuckled. "What were youz doing downs in zair?"

"Loose hose-clamp."

"What is this, this clamp?"

I explained what it was, and she understood.

"Where is dees thing?"

I pointed down in the pit with my flashlight. She looked at the offending item, then at me -- as if measuring me for a suit: "You are too tall to go down in there. Let me do eet."

She slipped in the hatch feet first and disappeared before I could say 'be my guest'. Then: "Where ees dees screwdriver?"

"Dropped it."

"Can I haves you flashlight, please?"

I passed it down, heard her moving about, then: "I tightened all of dem, but one of dem ees preetty roosty."

I think some men are threatened by a woman who knows how to use a screwdriver. I might have been, once upon a time, but now I was finding this whole thing sexy as hell.

"If you can, would you take it off?"

She ignored my unintended meaning and passed the rusty clamp up a moment later, and I went down into my spares locker and found a replacement. I passed it down to her and she had it on in about three point four seconds, and I thought I was going to orgasm right there in the cockpit.

She popped up from the hole and climbed into the cockpit.

"Easy!" she said.

"Easy for you to say," I replied, and she laughed again. "Can I get you something to drink?"

"Sure. Yes, please."

"Coke or Dr Pepper?"

"Pardon? Dr who?" (It's just too cool how that word sounds...)

"Dr Pepper. National Beverage of Texas. Ever had one?"

She shook her head.

"Right. Two Dr Peppers, comin' right up."

She took a sip, smiled. "Pretty good," she said. "Very sweet, though."

"Damn straight."

"You must be from Texas."

"Every bit of me, except my underwear. I think they're from Mexico."

"Who was that man." She rolled her eyes now. "The man with the mean eyes."

"Brother in law. Very religious, in an American sort of way."

"Oh. You are married to his sister?"

"Yes. In a roundabout way."

"Ah. You were divorced from his sister?"

"Not yet. It's kind of a work-in-progress."

"Oh," she said, "I see."

"He's still very conservative about things like marriage and -- things like that, I suppose."

"Yes, yes, I understand."

I could only imagine. "Do you?"

"Sure. He is visiting, then, to communicate between your wife and you?"

"Yeah, I suppose so. They'll be here for a week."

"Oh, do you have to go now."

"No. I got time off for good behavior. Free as a bird tonight."

She seemed to drift for a while, thinking of something else to say. Then: "Is that why you got thees boat? You are runnings away?"

"Probably, but don't tell anyone. It's supposed to be a secret."

"You makes a lot of laughs about dees tings. Why?"

"Jokes," I said. "I make jokes, then you laugh. Hopefully."

"And you are good at changing subjects, too."

"Good? Hell, I'm a real pro, lady."

"So, why do you run so, and make the jokes?"

"Better than crying, don't you think?"

"That depends."

"Oh? On what?"

"Do you ever want to cry? When your wife causes all dees pains?"

I looked away, really, because I really didn't want to go there -- with this woman.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean to . . ."

"It's okay. So. You wanted to talk?"

"We are, I think."

"Ah." I looked at her now, closely. "Why? Why with me?"

"I think at first I was curious: what makes someone lives on boat. Why do it? A lot of people do, from home, from France, but I never understand. I wanted to see a boat such as this, so I could understand maybe better. I see your boat and I understand. But then I see you and I am curious still."

"Oh?"

"It is beautiful, no? This life you have chosen. You travel, where you want to go, yes, and you take your home with you. So many freedoms. And you use no petrol, correct?"

"Very little."

"See, this is a good thing. I would like to travel someday, maybe not like dees, but when I've made some money of my own."

"Oh? Where would you go first?"

"Tahiti, Polynesia," she answered quickly.

I smiled, nodded.

"Have you been?" She looked expectant, interested.

"No, not yet."

"You will go?"

"If I don't wear out first. Yeah, I'll go."

"You see; you are free. That is the best kind of running."