Chapter Two, Part II
Smoking on the Jerisich Dock
It’s a pretty good crowd for a Sunday, thirteen singers, four full rounds. At the end of each round I allow myself a song, and then I ring this old sailing bell to signal another circuit. I can’t even remember where I got that thing – but we are on a harbor, after all. At the end of the fourth round we’re nearing one o’clock, so I finish with my usual, Marc Cohn’s “True Companion” – simple chords, simple thoughts, a nice reflective tune to send everyone out into the night.
My songbooks magically appear, neatly stacked, on my table (usually the work of Harry Baritone, if he isn’t fondling some young chickie), and all I have to do is pull on my dust covers and nudge my speakers against the wall. I’m a lucky girl. Most of my fellow KJs have to lug their stuff around to two or three bars a week. Me, it’s all Karz Bar, four nights a week. I am blessed. That’s what I tell myself on Sunday nights, when it all begins to hit home. I am blessed.
I’m not crazy, however, so I lug all one thousand CDs to my truck, in three large metallic cases. CDs are a KJ’s lifeblood, and a ten-thousand-plus songlist is nothing to sneeze at. Multiply that one thousand by fifteen bucks, and you’ve got enough for a new car.
I lean back in to give Hamster the high sign – he’s whipping chairs onto tabletops like a short-order cook flipping pancakes – then I take my weekly stroll down Harborview Drive. I turn at Jerisich Dock, past the bronze statue of Samuel Jerisich, catcher of fish, marrier of native women, founder of Gig Harbor. What was a Serbian boy doing here, halfway around the world?
The thing I especially like about Jerisich the Bronze is that he’s tossing a real net, tied down at strategic locales, replaced on an annual basis. In a more frivolous town, this would be an open invitation for buffoonery – I picture spiderwebs for Halloween, ensnared effigies of rival football players for homecoming. But the youth of Gig Harbor are not fishers of fun – they are fishers of SAT scores and university admissions. Princeton. Pepperdine. Purdue.
I stand beneath Samuel’s determined stare and feel a coward - retreater from the frontier, refugee from my native Alaska. I lift the loose corner of his net and bring it to my lips. This is corny (and a little unsanitary), but Jerisich protects me from ghosts, and I am grateful.
I slide down the walkway to the long, narrow public dock, shiny new, lit with knee-high theater lamps like a high-fashion catwalk. A single small yacht, the Auntie Maim, is tied up midway, hailing from Ballard, forty miles north. It might be Peg and Bill, the uninspired fortysomethings who signed up for nothing but Eagles songs and doubled their crime by drinking nothing but tequila sunrises. They’d be just the type to live in Ballard.
Forty strides later, I reach my retreat, a dock-ending square with two wooden benches. During the day, you might see a family here – or a spouse, a girlfriend, a cousin – waiting for their true companion to return from the sea. It gets me, sometimes. Tonight, the water is black as crude oil, the dock lights stringing out cotton candy trails of red, yellow and white. I spend much of my time in blackness, and it’s not all that bad – even comfortable, if you resign yourself to it. Someday when I’m ready, I’ll grab onto those colored strings and yank myself out – but not yet, not now. I watch the darkness with steady eyes; the lapping of the water tickles my skin, the tender chink of metal as the boats jostle their moorings, thoroughbreds anxious for the starting bell. A truck whirrs into second gear, downshifting the incline of Pioneer Street.
When I have wrapped the dark around my shoulders, I reach for the inside pocket of my leather jacket and pull out a pack of Swisher Sweets cigarillos, the little ones with the wooden tips. I clamp one between my teeth, always a little surprised at the cherry-flavored coating, and light it up. I hold it in for a second, then I open my jaws and let the smoke find its way. It hovers in a scrum over the dock light, then lifts one finger after another into the blue-black ceiling.
Swisher Sweets. Super Sonic. The world is ripe with esses, full of steam, escaping in a hiss, and Sunday night the only time I peek beneath the curtains and chew the sadness in its raw form. The blackness wells up inside; I coach myself to breathe between the puffs. In, out, there you go, just like that.
Something landward begins to flash. The crosswalk across Harborview has yellow blinkers half-embedded in the asphalt. When you press the Walk button and those lights go off, it makes you feel like royalty. I do it sometimes even when I don’t need to cross. Then I wait a minute and come back the other direction. This time it’s a man, not too tall, clean lines. I can tell from his gait – light-footed, graceful – that it’s Kevin the Cop. Did he press the Walk button at two in the morning because he’s a cop, or because he, too, enjoys its Vegas dazzle? Three puffs later, he arrives at my little island.
“Hi Kevin.”
“Hi Channy. Can a cop get a smoke?”
“Sorry, sailor. Last one.” I hate to lie to a guardian angel, but you do what you gotta.
He joins me on the bench and sniffs the air. “Is that a cigar?”
“Cigarillo. That’s why I smoke ‘em out here.” More lies. One step closer to hell.
“Hope I didn’t make too much of a ruckus tonight. I hate to pull that off-duty-cop shit.”
I laugh, little walk-lights tickling my head. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been dying for someone to take care of that guy. I wish he’d get off whatever he’s on.”
Kevin slaps the side of the bench. “There’s your big surprise. Judging by those superhuman moves he was throwin’ at me, I was guessin’ PCP. Turns out Super is a schizo.”
“No shit!”
“Yep. They took him off to Steilacoom for observation. You shall probably not see him hence.”
“I won’t miss him a bit.”
“It’s all for the best. I see too many wack jobs wandering the streets when they should be getting help somewhere. It’s also kind of refreshing to run into a case where the chemicals are internally produced.”
It occurs to me that cops probably care more about these problem children than we do – simply because they spend more time with them. I give Kevin a pat on the knee.
“You’re a good man, Kevin. One hell of a professional wrestler, too.”
He looks at me, but he doesn’t smile like I expect him to. Uh-oh. I’ve gone too far.
“You know, Channy, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to…”
“Kev. I’m sorry. You know how much I like you, and how much I enjoy having you at karaoke. But I’ve seen too many K-bars turn into pits of gossip, and Karz is the best place I’ve ever worked. I can’t be seen anywhere outside the bar with a regular.”
“What about right now?”
“This has an explanation. We had trouble tonight, you took care of it – you came by to tell me how it came out.”
He cocks his head and considers it. I mean, really considers it. He’s such a sweet boy. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I guess I knew that. But we all adore you, Channy.”
I am immensely grateful that he has chosen the words we all instead of I. Otherwise, I would now be doing an extremely chilly Australian crawl across the harbor.
“Thanks, Kevin. And thanks again for tonight. Come talk to me anytime at the bar, okay? I’d really like that.”
I’m overdoing it again. Shut up! Shut. Up.
“Okay,” he says, and stands up. “Well, I think I’ll get out while I’m behind. See you Thursday, Channy.”
“Good night, Kevin.”
He traverses the catwalk, much slower this time, hits the button and splits the magic flashers. My black, black heart swells in his direction. I’m not ready for cotton candy trails, and “True Companion” is a memory, not a wish.
Besides, he’s a hero. I don’t do heroes.
Next: Floy Craig, Caring Landlady
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Hear the audio podcast at: http://www.gcast.com/user/michaeljvaughn/podcast/main?nr=1&&s=198404806
Image by MJV.
Smoking on the Jerisich Dock
It’s a pretty good crowd for a Sunday, thirteen singers, four full rounds. At the end of each round I allow myself a song, and then I ring this old sailing bell to signal another circuit. I can’t even remember where I got that thing – but we are on a harbor, after all. At the end of the fourth round we’re nearing one o’clock, so I finish with my usual, Marc Cohn’s “True Companion” – simple chords, simple thoughts, a nice reflective tune to send everyone out into the night.
My songbooks magically appear, neatly stacked, on my table (usually the work of Harry Baritone, if he isn’t fondling some young chickie), and all I have to do is pull on my dust covers and nudge my speakers against the wall. I’m a lucky girl. Most of my fellow KJs have to lug their stuff around to two or three bars a week. Me, it’s all Karz Bar, four nights a week. I am blessed. That’s what I tell myself on Sunday nights, when it all begins to hit home. I am blessed.
I’m not crazy, however, so I lug all one thousand CDs to my truck, in three large metallic cases. CDs are a KJ’s lifeblood, and a ten-thousand-plus songlist is nothing to sneeze at. Multiply that one thousand by fifteen bucks, and you’ve got enough for a new car.
I lean back in to give Hamster the high sign – he’s whipping chairs onto tabletops like a short-order cook flipping pancakes – then I take my weekly stroll down Harborview Drive. I turn at Jerisich Dock, past the bronze statue of Samuel Jerisich, catcher of fish, marrier of native women, founder of Gig Harbor. What was a Serbian boy doing here, halfway around the world?
The thing I especially like about Jerisich the Bronze is that he’s tossing a real net, tied down at strategic locales, replaced on an annual basis. In a more frivolous town, this would be an open invitation for buffoonery – I picture spiderwebs for Halloween, ensnared effigies of rival football players for homecoming. But the youth of Gig Harbor are not fishers of fun – they are fishers of SAT scores and university admissions. Princeton. Pepperdine. Purdue.
I stand beneath Samuel’s determined stare and feel a coward - retreater from the frontier, refugee from my native Alaska. I lift the loose corner of his net and bring it to my lips. This is corny (and a little unsanitary), but Jerisich protects me from ghosts, and I am grateful.
I slide down the walkway to the long, narrow public dock, shiny new, lit with knee-high theater lamps like a high-fashion catwalk. A single small yacht, the Auntie Maim, is tied up midway, hailing from Ballard, forty miles north. It might be Peg and Bill, the uninspired fortysomethings who signed up for nothing but Eagles songs and doubled their crime by drinking nothing but tequila sunrises. They’d be just the type to live in Ballard.
Forty strides later, I reach my retreat, a dock-ending square with two wooden benches. During the day, you might see a family here – or a spouse, a girlfriend, a cousin – waiting for their true companion to return from the sea. It gets me, sometimes. Tonight, the water is black as crude oil, the dock lights stringing out cotton candy trails of red, yellow and white. I spend much of my time in blackness, and it’s not all that bad – even comfortable, if you resign yourself to it. Someday when I’m ready, I’ll grab onto those colored strings and yank myself out – but not yet, not now. I watch the darkness with steady eyes; the lapping of the water tickles my skin, the tender chink of metal as the boats jostle their moorings, thoroughbreds anxious for the starting bell. A truck whirrs into second gear, downshifting the incline of Pioneer Street.
When I have wrapped the dark around my shoulders, I reach for the inside pocket of my leather jacket and pull out a pack of Swisher Sweets cigarillos, the little ones with the wooden tips. I clamp one between my teeth, always a little surprised at the cherry-flavored coating, and light it up. I hold it in for a second, then I open my jaws and let the smoke find its way. It hovers in a scrum over the dock light, then lifts one finger after another into the blue-black ceiling.
Swisher Sweets. Super Sonic. The world is ripe with esses, full of steam, escaping in a hiss, and Sunday night the only time I peek beneath the curtains and chew the sadness in its raw form. The blackness wells up inside; I coach myself to breathe between the puffs. In, out, there you go, just like that.
Something landward begins to flash. The crosswalk across Harborview has yellow blinkers half-embedded in the asphalt. When you press the Walk button and those lights go off, it makes you feel like royalty. I do it sometimes even when I don’t need to cross. Then I wait a minute and come back the other direction. This time it’s a man, not too tall, clean lines. I can tell from his gait – light-footed, graceful – that it’s Kevin the Cop. Did he press the Walk button at two in the morning because he’s a cop, or because he, too, enjoys its Vegas dazzle? Three puffs later, he arrives at my little island.
“Hi Kevin.”
“Hi Channy. Can a cop get a smoke?”
“Sorry, sailor. Last one.” I hate to lie to a guardian angel, but you do what you gotta.
He joins me on the bench and sniffs the air. “Is that a cigar?”
“Cigarillo. That’s why I smoke ‘em out here.” More lies. One step closer to hell.
“Hope I didn’t make too much of a ruckus tonight. I hate to pull that off-duty-cop shit.”
I laugh, little walk-lights tickling my head. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been dying for someone to take care of that guy. I wish he’d get off whatever he’s on.”
Kevin slaps the side of the bench. “There’s your big surprise. Judging by those superhuman moves he was throwin’ at me, I was guessin’ PCP. Turns out Super is a schizo.”
“No shit!”
“Yep. They took him off to Steilacoom for observation. You shall probably not see him hence.”
“I won’t miss him a bit.”
“It’s all for the best. I see too many wack jobs wandering the streets when they should be getting help somewhere. It’s also kind of refreshing to run into a case where the chemicals are internally produced.”
It occurs to me that cops probably care more about these problem children than we do – simply because they spend more time with them. I give Kevin a pat on the knee.
“You’re a good man, Kevin. One hell of a professional wrestler, too.”
He looks at me, but he doesn’t smile like I expect him to. Uh-oh. I’ve gone too far.
“You know, Channy, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to…”
“Kev. I’m sorry. You know how much I like you, and how much I enjoy having you at karaoke. But I’ve seen too many K-bars turn into pits of gossip, and Karz is the best place I’ve ever worked. I can’t be seen anywhere outside the bar with a regular.”
“What about right now?”
“This has an explanation. We had trouble tonight, you took care of it – you came by to tell me how it came out.”
He cocks his head and considers it. I mean, really considers it. He’s such a sweet boy. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I guess I knew that. But we all adore you, Channy.”
I am immensely grateful that he has chosen the words we all instead of I. Otherwise, I would now be doing an extremely chilly Australian crawl across the harbor.
“Thanks, Kevin. And thanks again for tonight. Come talk to me anytime at the bar, okay? I’d really like that.”
I’m overdoing it again. Shut up! Shut. Up.
“Okay,” he says, and stands up. “Well, I think I’ll get out while I’m behind. See you Thursday, Channy.”
“Good night, Kevin.”
He traverses the catwalk, much slower this time, hits the button and splits the magic flashers. My black, black heart swells in his direction. I’m not ready for cotton candy trails, and “True Companion” is a memory, not a wish.
Besides, he’s a hero. I don’t do heroes.
Next: Floy Craig, Caring Landlady
Purchase the book at: http://www.amazon.com/Outro-Michael-J-Vaughn/dp/1440111405/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1231020486&sr=8-1
Hear the audio podcast at: http://www.gcast.com/user/michaeljvaughn/podcast/main?nr=1&&s=198404806
Image by MJV.
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