Dockside

She looked dark, cold, and dangerous, and I was glad to walk out into this dark and stormy night.

____________________________________

Some electricians were due to arrive first thing the next morning, but by ten they were a no-show. I was puttering around the dock, cleaning up after the storm, and had a long green garden hose strung out to a tap, filling the water tanks, when I heard her voice down dockside.

"Hello."

I turned, saw her standing not five feet from me. "Hi there."

"Quite a storm, wasn't it?"

"Ah. Yes, a rough one."

"Nice looking. The boat."

"Ah."

I was, as you can plainly tell, giving her my best imitation of an erudite, loquacious imbecile. Comes naturally, 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 got 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? Zipper down?

"And you have never been on a boat before? Nothing, I mean?"

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

"Ah."

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

"Oh, it's 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.

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

"It has moments of that, yes." I looked at her for an awkward moment, not really sure what to say. "So. Down below then?" 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 navigation?"

"Ideally, yes. When I remember how it works. I think, however, their 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. Hell, maybe I did. I was so nervous I could hardly talk.

"So, you will show me around now?"

"Ah." I looked around like I was a stranger here too. "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, but no cowboys. No room for their 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! Fontasteek! 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 point she began to feel 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 time."

I helped her off the boat and she took off.

Didn't turn back, either.

"Ah," I said.

The electricians turned up around noon.

______________________________

My brother-in-law and his wife flew over a few days later, just as I was settling into marina life, London-style. Pete was close to his sister, too close, and I think he kept in touch with his anger for her by staying in touch with me. Claire and I aren't separated, not in a legal sense anyway; we'd finally just gone our separate way after I'd found out she was enjoying herself with someone else for about the third time in as many weeks, and that was that. Both our families had had a difficult time with the 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 watch on the Bible he always had 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 and all kinds of fun stuff. A regular one man revival meeting, and as a consequence I always looked forward to seeing him. Just the thought of him with that Bible out always gives me joy.

Anyway, I'd planned to take them 'round to museums and on a couple of day trips out to Bath and maybe up to Cambridge, take in a show or two... the usual tourist crap, I suppose. I took the Tube over to Paddington the next Monday morning 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 overlooking the marina. I dropped them off and told them how to get to the boat then left to give them time for a nap.

They came over for 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, I wanted to run when I saw the scowl on his face. He looked 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 in the chili.

"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 had 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 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 word hung in the air like a lead balloon.

I was getting, well, mad.

"Hm-m, you know, if she'd hung around here a little longer, I think I might have been able to fuck her brains out. But she had the good sense to leave. Sorry."

I have never been accused of being well-mannered toward religious hypocrites, at least not knowingly so. And, well, even my dear wife had never been able to tolerate sanctimonious assholes, and she had long considered Pete to be one of 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: "Well, if she'd just stayed down here a little bit longer, Becky/Peggy, I think I just might have been able to drill her right up her sweet little ass!"

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 desert?"

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

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 recalcitrant 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, no right 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 it is, nothing, nothing at all 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 ever. 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 to have a good evening. 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 a breeze stuck. "Uh. Ah, I. Well, I. Uh, could you give me a hand 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. I think within fifteen seconds she was beside me and I was yanked up and out and soon gasping at the shock of so much sunlight and the fact that I wasn't going to die with my ass hanging out so everyone in the marina could have a nice laugh before 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? Should have been down there in the hole with me."

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 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. 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.

"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."

"No. Long story. Amicable, but long."

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

"He's still very conservative about things like marriage and . . . things, I guess."

"Yes, yes, I understand."

I could only imagine. "Do you?"

"He is visiting, then, to communicate with 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 to say. Then: "Is that why you got thees boat? You are runnings away?"

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

"You makes a lot of laughs about things like dees. 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?"

"Did you ever cry? When your wife causes all dees pain?"

I looked away, really, because I just 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 live on a boat. Why do it? A lot of people do, from home, from France, but I never understood. I wanted to see a boat such as yours, so I could understand maybe. 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. 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."

I nodded. "It can be."

"Exactly. Where will you go next?"

"Probably to the market. I need some things for dinner."

She slapped my knee. Playfully, almost intimately. "You are the, what did you say, the joker-ass?!"

"Smart Ass. Always. Just so." I looked down at my hands; hell, who knows, maybe I smiled.

"Will you let me cook you dinner?"

"What? After you fixed my hose-clamps? Doesn't seem quite right to me."

She took my hand then; it was an innocent gesture. Nothing intimate about it at all, just friendly -- in the best possible sense of the word - and suddenly everything about her felt so familiar, so natural.

"Come; let's go ups to zee markets and get somes things, then we weel decide what to do for deenair." Like we'd done exactly that a thousand times before.

"Ah."

Everything felt like an echo. Feelings once upon a time I'd associated with another life, another woman, another lover's hands; these feelings washed through me and left me in a dumb silence as her words swirled around me, crowded my thoughts, then pushed them aside completely. In the end all I could feel was her hand on mine.

That moment, when we touch.

Do we ever change? Is that first galvanic-exchange centered with such focused primacy for all our lives? Do we ever grow away from the intensity of that moment?

And why did I feel guilty, goddamn it?

_______________________________

I came to know Michelle Cluny-Sunderland pretty well over the next few weeks.

We did go up to the market, we did walk around and look at fish and flowers and those hundred other things they always show in movies (and you know the scene, too; the montage of happy smiling lovers looking at cucumbers accompanied by 10cc singing 'I'm Not In Love'), but in the end we made our way out to Brick Lane and ate curry so fiery hot we dripped sweat (and I mean sweat, here... not perspiration; one does not perspire into two litre buckets -- and fill them ... one sweats -- like a pig...) and gasped in shock that anything even remotely considered 'food' could render one so completely speechless, and so quickly.

She took another line on the Underground home from out there, so we said goodbye at the turnstiles.

I spent the rest of that week with Pete and whats-her-name; we did amble out to Bath and take in the Abbey and the Roman ruins, and they opted for Salisbury and Stonehenge over Cambridge (of course), so we did that, too. We ate on-board a couple of times, and they remarked more than once how grand the scents of delicate cooking were in the marina (really, it's true; I didn't know what to say...). I put them on the Heathrow Express a few days later and heaved a great sigh of relief.

They promised to write.

Michelle had dropped by once or twice on her way into work at the restaurant that week; she was charming and sweet as she drifted by but that was it. A couple of days after Pete left, the following Monday, in fact, she came by and rapped on the side of the hull. She had a little canvas shopping bag in hand, a couple of baguettes slanting up among stalks of celery and a bottle of wine.