South of the Pumphouse (2 page)
Earl stepped up to the sink and poured the contents from the bag. The striper plopped into the sink, staring with its dead gray eye out of the slimy pink film that continued to drip from the bag. Earl grabbed his special filet knife from the rack on the wall. Most of the knives in the house were kept in the drawer, but the few that Earl deemed his special fish-cleaning knives resided on a magnetic strip tacked onto the side of a cabinet above the sink. His personal favorite wasn't one of the more expensive but an old Russell carbon-bladed filet knife that had belonged to his father. It wasn't so much the sentimental value that drew him to it time and again but purely a matter of function. It was a good knife. One thing about the carbon blade: The steel needed to be kept oiled or it became overly oxidized. Denise, Earl's wife, often commented on how confounding it was to watch him work a nice piece of fish flesh with “that rusty old piece-of-shit knife.”
“Best knife in the house, hon.”
“Elch, disgusting,” she'd say, shaking her hands and scurrying away.
“Best knife in the house,” he'd mutter as he carved, working like a sculptor with a fine piece of marble. Earl truly was an artist with a filet knife. He prided himself on his filets, his favorite being salmon. He likened the night before salmon season each year to the experience of Christmas Eve as a kid. He could barely sleep in anticipation, hoping to get out there and catch a “splitter,” a large Chinook yielding a grand pair of filets. Earl would amaze his friends by taking a fish, sometimes over thirty pounds, and, gripping it by the head, run his old Russell just behind the gill plate downward, then sharply turn the knife ninety degrees to run the blade along the spine, down the length, to the tail. Without fail, this would produce the finest salmon filet to be found anywhere around, and with the least amount of meat left on the bone.
This particular fish was not a salmon, but to Earl the striper was still a quality catch. He regretted not cleaning it sooner after catching it, but recent circumstances placed this modest bass low on his priority list. Denise was gone again, off to stay with her mother until Earl “got his shit together.”
It was now or never for the little striper, he thought. Soon the fish would turn, if it hadn't already, and that would be just plain wasteful. Grabbing it by the tail, he flopped it up onto the cutting board with a greasy wet slap.
SNIFF. SNIFF.
He began to filet the bass with an incision just behind the gill.
SNIFF.
Earl wiped his nose with the back of his right hand, which held the knife, and continued to work on the fish. A slight trickle of blood appeared from his right nostril. Small droplets of red began to fall on the shiny gray stripes of the bass.
“Ah, fuck,” he groaned, wiping his nose again, streaking blood and mucus across his face and onto the back of his hand. With slimy fingers, he reached for a paper towel, held it to his nose, and tilted his head back, staring toward the ceiling. After a few moments, satisfied that the blood had stopped, he threw the towel aside and continued on the fish. Irritated, his movements became increasingly erratic, causing him to foul up the cut. He examined the filet.
“Shit!”
Earl dropped the piece of fish into a bowl. Visibly frustrated, he tried to salvage his work. Carving in around the backbone for the meat that was left behind, he slipped with his knife and sliced his left thumb.
“Fuck!”
Earl stuck his thumb into his mouth, and his nose immediately began to bleed again. He returned to fileting the fish, not noticing the blood from his nose. He flipped the fish over to work the other side, his movements becoming more awkward and irregular. Blood began to drip onto the fish flesh from his nose. His thumb was also starting to bleed more rapidly.
“FUCK!!”
Earl began to slash frantically at the fish, removing small chunks and depositing them into the bowl. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, again smearing blood. The crimson continued to flow and drip onto the bass, creating a horrid slurry.
“FUUUCCKK!!!”
Earl hacked at the fish with one hand, holding the back of the other against his nostril. He roared as he hacked, finally grabbing the mutilated bass by the head and stuffing it tail first into the garbage disposal. Reaching to switch on the disposal, he smeared blood and slime onto the switch plate. The disposal kicked in with a growl, spinning the bass in the drain. Earl watched the fish. Blood drained from his nose, dripping onto his white
FLOWMASTER MUFFLERS
T-shirt. His breathing was heavy and rapid, like a spent boxer. A few moments elapsed before he was able to calm himself down. Finally, he took a deep breath and switched off the disposal.
Earl watched the head of the fish as it stopped spinning in the drain. He focused intently on the vacant gray eye.
M
urky water darkness. Daylight would soon arrive, and the water would still be just as murky and nearly as dark. Here was the bottom of San Pablo Bay, about six feet below the surface. For anyone tempted to dive in this particular stretch of water, the scenery would be less than lackluster. San Pablo Bay is a massive mud flat, with the exception of the few channels that link San Francisco Bay with the Carquinez Straits and eventually the Sacramento River Delta. On the surface, the water at this hour was calm and glassy. Lights from the channel markers could be seen in the distance. Far beyond was the flicker of the sleeping city of San Francisco. In the miles of vast emptiness, only one thing could be distinguished, a dilapidated shack sitting on a cluster of old pilings. Local fishermen knew the shack as the
Pumphouse
.
All was quiet. The only sound, the deep hoot of a far-off buoy pulsating its warning call every few seconds. Abruptly, a huge, pale serpentine creature with reptilian skin broke the smooth, flat surface. The prehistoric head moved nearer to the piling cluster and passed to the left, followed by the rest of its long massive body. The creature then arched and rolled its hulking mass gracefully back down toward the bottom with a slight slap of its pectoral fin, rustling the water, creating a fizz of small, rising air bubbles. The tail whisked the surface, then disappeared, leaving the dark silhouette of the Pumphouse against the distant skyline.
T
he waters in and around the San Francisco Bay were once immensely fertile, but the heyday of the fishing industry has long past. The Sacramento River, which has always been a key element in the flushing out of the bay, has been dammed and diverted over the years for various purposes, including agriculture and hydroelectric power. Couple that with the continuous dredging of the channels and harbors for shipping traffic, and the San Francisco and San Pablo Bays are left in a perpetual state of murk.
Regardless of the hurdles, Mother Nature is still able to maintain a relatively strong presence in these waters. The starry flounder, the bullhead, the striper, and the sharks, skates, rays, and other mud dwellers all live as best they can in this vast wastelandâor wonderland, depending on one's perspective.
Among the aquatic residents of San Pablo Bay, one stands a bit more majestically than the othersâa wondrous creature known as the sturgeon. The white sturgeon, or
acipenser transmontanus
, looks like a cross between a shark and a catfish, with the hide of an alligator. This prehistoric-looking beast can grow to be quite large. Along with the elephants of the African plains, the sturgeon is like no other creature in its domain. Relatively little is known of these ancient creatures, apart from what any local sportsman can tell you about the firm white meat and the incredible battle that awaits any angler lucky enough to sink a hook into one of the grand giants' leathery mouths. California State fishing regulations define a “keeper” sturgeon as no less than forty-four inches long.
T
asha's lips looked incredibly sultry as she slept. They were lips that women paid Hollywood surgeons big money forâfull, rich lips. Tasha was the type of sleeper who breathed through her mouth, and saliva trickled from the corner of her parted lips onto the pillow. She would slumber heavily tonight, maybe a little heavier than usual, because the sex just a few hours earlier had been on the more passionate side. Not that the sex wasn't always passionate, but this was exceptional. An occasional tingle kept her from falling into a truly deep sleep. Normally she associated that tingle with the urge to urinate. Most nights she stumbled instinctively to the bathroom for her mid-nightly pee, but tonight it was more than the urge to pee that made her tingle.
Earlier that day she had visited Inca-do's, the local tattoo and body piercing shop, to get her hood piercedâthe clitoral hood at the top of her vagina. She'd talked about having this particular piercing done for a while, but her man Ed had always seemed uncomfortable with the whole subject. Finally, in a rampant display of female bonding, she and her best friend Leela threw back a few shots of tequila and, as Tasha would later describe it, went out and “got our pussies pierced.” It had all been in good fun, but once the buzz started to fade, Tasha grew concerned about what Ed would think. Not that he was the type to get angry. More likely, Ed would simply grow quiet, calmly and carefully voicing his disappointment.
This time, though, Ed surprised her. Upon entering the house that evening, he was greeted by Tasha sitting on the couch wearing nothing but a vintage yellow
Welcome Back, Kotter
T-shirt and a pair of high-top Converse All-Stars. She sat well-postured and upright, smiling from ear to ear, with her knees spread wide. Ed instantly noticed the silver gleam from the stud at the top of her well-trimmed pubic hair. His cock grew hard, poking at his pants. He smiled and moved toward her.
No one had ever made Ed feel the way Tasha did. She was more exotic than any woman he had ever dreamed of in his teens. She grew up in Berkeley, the daughter of a prominent neurosurgeon. Her father, Dr. Nicholas Taylor, was an African-American, who had started his training as a medic in Vietnam. He had fallen for a local woman while overseas, and much to the chagrin of both families, the two were wed.
Bringing an Asian bride home to the United States was becoming more and more common in those days, but racial tensions in Nicholas's home state of Georgia still made it a less than appealing place to raise his newborn daughter. After a stint with the local community college, Taylor made his way to the University of California in San Francisco, eventually relocating to Berkeley, a place where an interracial couple drew little attention. With the progressive social and political climate of Berkeley in the early '70s, Nicholas and his wife Mai Pan found a place they could truly call home.
Though not a classical beauty, Tasha exuded a look that was uniquely striking. She had dreaded hair, about shoulder length, and her big brown eyes were accented by a thick pair of black horn-rimmed glasses that teetered on the edge of her button nose. Her caramel skin was dotted on various parts of her body with small tribal-patterned tattoos. Showing a unique flair for casual thrift fashion, she favored old hats, work boots, and campy handbags, drawing double takes from men and women alike as she walked the avenues of Berkeley. She was medium height, with a wide smile and a feminine face, yet her saunter was confident, almost masculine.
Ed had a moderate share of girlfriends growing up in his small hometown, but the first time he met Tasha, he was immediately taken aback by her presence. Though at times she was playfully childlike, she was intelligent and extremely independent. If one were to identify the dominant party in the relationship, it would be her. She was far from being a hard woman, however, just a bit more outspoken than Ed, who by all standards was considered a nice, easy-going guy.
Tasha was relieved to find her piercing decision so well received. Ed walked over to her from the door and dropped to his knees.
“It's beautiful,” he said as he moved his face between her legs.
He flicked his tongue once across her labia, just below the piercing. He always loved the soft, salty taste. Tasha smiled and put her hand on the back of his head, kneading her fingers through his hair.
“Is it all right to touch it?” asked Ed, licking her again.
“Yes, just be careful. They said we should avoid sex for a few days.”
He ran the tip of his tongue across the silver stud. It was smooth and cool. It made his pants throb.
“Mmmm, I don't think I can hold back, hon. I got me quite a boner going here,” he whispered as he reached into his underwear.
Tasha pulled him up toward her face, slipped her tongue between his lips, then said softly, “I'll put it in my mouth for a while, if you want.”
He kissed her and then spoke coyly, “Can I rub it against your butt?”
Tasha gave a sly laugh and pulled him in tight with her legs.
So went the night. Apart from the tingling, Tasha slept well. So did Ed. The past few weeks had been rough for him. Though he had been brought up in an environment where men suppressed any feelings of sensitivity, Tasha had been able to get Ed to open up for her during their handful of years together, and with the recent loss of his father, she could sense his confusion and struggle with grief.
Ed's passion for Tasha was intense, but when it came to sleeping, rarely did he hold her. She, on the other hand, was a cuddler, and would have very much enjoyed it if Ed held her all night every night as she slumbered. On the occasion that they did fall asleep entangled in each other, the morning would find him on his own side of the bed, more often than not with his back to her. He was very protective of his space, another result of his upbringing.
