South of the Pumphouse (5 page)
“Yeah, I remember when Dad nearly kicked the shit out of you for spilling ice cream on it right after they first got it.”
Earl laughed. “Well, he'd have really kicked the shit out of me had he known it wasn't ice cream. Me and Denise used to bone on that couch all the time during lunch break back in high school.”
“Yer kidding me,” Ed chuckled. “All this time I thought that was an ice cream stain. You told Dad it was. Ah, you fucker.”
“Well, it was cream, all right, just not
ice
cream. Hell, we were like bunnies back then; we left our marks all over that house.”
“Man, I don't want to think about it,” Ed laughed.
“Well, yer looking good there, bro.”
“Thanks,” Earl responded. “Life treatin' ya okay?”
“Oh, yeah, just plodding along, doing my thing,” Ed muttered as he gazed around the garage at a collection of posters featuring semi-clad, full-figured women holding miscellaneous tools, mufflers, and whatnot.
“Well, you look like a hundred bucks.”
“Thanks, bro,” Ed said, slapping Earl's belly. “Looks like you been putting away them Budweisers pretty hard.”
“Shit. Silver Bullet, buddy,” Earl retorted, holding up a can of light beer. “Had to. You should have seen me a month ago. Donny started callin' me Ol' Johnny Gut.”
Ed pondered for a moment. “Donny? Not Don Vowdy ⦔
“Yep.”
Stepping up to the dispenser on the workbench, Earl pumped some hand cleaner into his greasy palms.
“You still hanging out with that fucking guy?”
“He's just a good ol' boy.”
“Good ol' dipshit's more like it,” Ed muttered.
“He ain't that bad. Ya gotta know him,” Earl said, rubbing his hands together as the abrasive cream squirted between his fingers, making wet farty sounds.
“Shit. I knew him well enough. He was such a dick to me when I was a kid. Man, you don't even know.”
Ed remembered Don Vowdy clearly, though he hadn't thought of him in years. Donny had been Earl's best friend as long as Ed could remember. He had also been a source of considerable torment to Ed throughout his childhood.
“He'd flick his lit cigarettes at me when you guys used to sneak them from Dad out in the tree fort.”
“Eh ⦠it builds character,” Earl answered with a shrug.
The brothers walked from the garage into the kitchen. Earl peeled a handful of paper towels from the hanging roll.
“Yeah, well, if I don't have to see that guy ever again, it'll be fine with me.”
“Well,” Earl paused, rubbing the gunk from his hands, “I hate to tell ya, there's a chance he might be comin' with us today.”
“You're shitting me. I thought it was just us two!”
“Well, he knows I go out every Sunday, and sometimes he just meets me down at the ramp.”
“Shit, Earl. I thought it was gonna just be the two bros chilling, having a good time trying to catch a fish or two.”
“Don't worry. I ain't seen him all week. It's fifty-fifty he won't show up.” Earl smiled, threw the wad of greasy paper towels into the bin, then put his hand on Ed's shoulder. “Cool out, Ed. It's just ol' Don-ski. Besides, we're all grown-up now.”
“Yeah, right,” Ed muttered skeptically. He looked around and suddenly realized that he hadn't seen Earl's wife yet. “Hey, where's Denise?”
Earl stared blankly at Ed. “Oh, sorry, Ed. Did you want some coffee or somethin'?” He pointed to the empty coffee maker.
“Naw, I had mine already this morning.”
Earl looked at Ed and then threw one hand in the air. “She stormed out of here yesterday to stay with her mom. Ya know, Ed, it's the same old shit. I'm always the bad guy.”
“Yeah, I hear ya.” A perfunctory responseâEd had no desire to dig into that can of worms.
Earl walked down the hallway, peeling off his T-shirt. Ed wandered back into the living room.
“I can't hardly talk to her anymore, Ed,” Earl bellowed from back in the bedroom, as he dug through his drawer for a clean shirt.
Ed casually poked about the room looking at various pictures, videos, magazines, and cheap knickknacks. He stopped to examine an old Nagel print from the '80s hanging prominently on the far wall and chuckled to himself.
“My God, I haven't seen one of these in years.”
Continuing through the room, Ed closely eyed the mess on the coffee table. He ran his finger across the glass surface, lifted his hand to his face, and stared at the white powder on his finger.
“You're not still snorting that crank shit, are you, bro?” he shouted.
“Hell no,” Earl responded on his way back down the hallway. He entered the living room wearing a fresh T-shirt and holding a button-down flannel shirt in his hand. Ed turned to him as he came into the room and pointed his powdered finger in his brother's direction.
“That's Denise's shit,” Earl blurted. “She gets all tweaked up on that shit for days. Then PMS sets in, and I catch all kinds of hell. I tell ya, Ed, I can't talk to her.”
“Bummer,” Ed stated flatly. “Well, what are we gonna do about lunch?”
As they headed to the door, Earl checked for his keys and wallet. “They got Rel's sandwiches and chips and shit down at the bait shop.”
“I don't know, bro. I ain't into them pre-made mystery-meat sandwiches.”
“It's fishin' food, Ed. Just like the old days.”
“Yep, them good ol' days.”
They both chuckled.
“C'mon, Eddy boy, let's get you a big fat stur-gee-own!”
They left the house together, slamming the front door behind them. As they walked off the porch and down the driveway, Ed felt the morning sun on his face. Late fall mornings in El Sobrante could be quite pleasant by his recollection, and this particular moment reminded him of the boyhood days when he and Earl would set off at this same time every weekday for their walk to school. He remembered how they used to stop in front of the lime-green house on the far corner of their street to throw their lunch bananas onto Joe Walker's roof. Neither of them much liked bananas; nor did they like Joe Walker. Ed couldn't remember why, but for some reason, he and Earl had always had it in for Joe Walker. Perhaps it was because the guy, a fairly young bachelor who seemed to always be driving a new car, kept his yard impeccably clean. He even painted his driveway on a regular basis. The boys' father used to mutter sarcastic remarks when the family drove past Joe's house. Joe actually came to their house once and confronted their father after an unknown vandal had practiced slides with baseball cleats on his perfectly groomed front lawn in the middle of the night.
It wasn't until they reached their teens and Joe became a good source of potential income in their weed-pulling venture that they were able to put their differences aside and work together for mutual benefit. At that point, Joe Walker suddenly became the nicest guy in the neighborhood in their eyes.
Earl and his best friend Donny had started hanging out at Joe's on a regular basis one summer, mainly because Joe would let them smoke and would buy them beer. Ed had been too young for such things; at least that's what Earl told him. But he enjoyed hearing the tales, and he looked forward to the day when he too could indulge in the finer things with the older guys.
Ed would never have the chance to indulge himself at Joe Walker's, though. That same summer, when Earl and Donny were spending their time at Joe's, rumors started to spread about Joe and his personal tastes. One day, Donny claimed that a drunk Joe had asked him if he could touch his cock. There were no other witnesses. Donny, of course, claimed that he had refused in disgust and “kicked that faggot in the balls” before running out of the house.
That was the end of the good times with Joe. After that, the vandalism on his house grew to dramatic proportions. It wasn't long before Joe's lawn was host to one of those infamous fertilizer cross burnings. Though he didn't move away, Joe was never again seen outside his house or around the neighborhood. Strangely, his yard remained somehow impeccably maintained, inspiring childhood tales of little Oompa Loompaâlike men working on the yard in the middle of the night.
Y
ou get a new boat?”
They walked to the end of the driveway.
“Naw, same one. This is Red's old boat, remember?”
“Mmmm. I thought Red had a Pipestone.”
“Nope. You're thinkin' of Al's boat. That thing was a hunk of shit.”
“I always thought that boat was pretty cool. It had all that sparkly orange on the sides. Kinda had that old dune buggy, Brady Bunch thing going on.”
They reached Earl's boat and started uncovering it.
“That thing rode so damn rough you'd get the shit beat out of ya every time you tried to go anywhere in it. No way could ya take it out in the ocean,” said Earl.
“You hit the ocean much this year?”
“Aw, man, I don't even want to talk about it. The best damn salmon bite in seven years and my boat was in the shop.”
“Bummer. What was the problem?”
Earl told the story as they rolled the cover off the boat. “Well, I start hearin' this clunkin' sound when I'm runnin', ya know.
CLUNKA-CLUNKA-CLUNK
. I'm thinkin', must be U-joints. So I tear it down, change the U-joints, put it back together. Still:
CLUNKA-CLUNKA-CLUNK.
So I call up old Wayne down at W&R Marine, and he says, âSounds like the gimbal bearing to me.' So I tear it down again, change the gimbal bearing. Put it all back together. Everything's fine. So me and my buddy Gus, we head out one day kinda late just to test her on out, maybe drop a line or two. We're headin' for the Golden Gate, about a quarter-mile from it. Then all of a sudden:
CRUNCH-ZING!
The most god-awful sound you ever heard. She wouldn't go forward or back. The damn lower drive shaft broke. Had to get towed into Sausalito.”
“That sucks.”
“Hell yeah, it sucked. Old Wayne had to rebuild the whole bottom end. Cost me a fuckin' nut. Took all damn summer, too.” Earl paused for a moment, shaking his head. “Of course, everybody's knockin' the shit out of the salmon and braggin' to me about it.”
“Why didn't you go with someone else?”
“Eh, it's not as fun for me. Most these guys like to troll. I hate trolling. Noisy nasty shit. Bores the hell out of me. Guys have to use them big-ass poles. No thanks. I'm a moochin' man. Light gear, light gear.”
“Yeah, but it's gotta be better than sitting around all summer.”
“Eh, Denise had me rebuildin' that retaining wall out back. So I had plenty to do. It just ain't no fun goin' out when you know you got a boat sittin' in the shop suckin' at your wallet.”
“Yeah, you know what Dad always said.”
Earl chimed in knowingly before Ed could finish: “
A boat's a hole in the water you throw money into.”
“Yeah, I know,” added Earl with a grin. “But Ed, I gots to have my boat!”
They both laughed and continued working on getting things ready. Earl brought the gear for the day out of the garage: fishing poles, tackle box, ice chest, gaff. Ed had forgotten how much equipment it took to catch a fish. Earl backed his truck up to the tongue of the trailer, and Ed cranked the jack down to lower it onto the ball hitch. They climbed into the cab and drove off.
E
d peered around the cab of the pickup as they cruised down the road. An older Ford, though not as old as the one their father used to drive, it reminded Ed of days rolling around with a boat in tow, heading for the Richmond Marina to chase fish on the bay. The boys used to seek all kinds of game throughout the seasons. In the spring, it was halibut in the East Bay and stripers in the flats or by the rock pile. In the summer, it was salmon in the ocean. In the winter, it was the granddaddy diamondback sturgeon.
“You guys been getting 'em?” asked Ed.
“Eh, lots a little shakers. It's been pretty slow. All that rain last week should stir 'em up, though. Red got him an oversize last Thursday.”
“Oversize? What the hell is that?”
“Shit, it
has
been awhile since you been out,” Earl sniggered with a sideways gaze. “You can't keep sturgeon over seventy-two inches long. That's the law. It's been that way for years now.”
“Why not?”
Earl, his mind on the slow-moving car in front of them, didn't answer.
Ed asked again, “Why can't you keep 'em over seventy-two inches?”
“They figure they're old breeders, I guess. It's not like it used to be, bro. We used to go out and get 'em. Remember? You'd go sturgeon fishin' and
catch
sturgeon. Now? Shit, I went out every Sunday last winter and only boated three keepers. So now they're comin' down and regulatin'. It's a good idea, I guess.” Earl paused and then continued, “They don't taste so good when they get that big and old anyway. Remember that 300-pounder Uncle Pete caught when we was kids?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Lots of meat, but it tasted kind of funny. Remember?”
“Mmmm. I don't remember the meat.”
“Yeah, you were pretty young.”
They drove through town and out onto the parkway. Ed had heard about the parkway, but this was the first time that he had actually been on it. In the old days, they had to get on the freeway and then exit east of the marina, driving down Cutting Boulevard through the ghettos of Richmond. The parkway had been completed just a few years earlier to connect Highway 80 with the San Rafael Bridge. It was a raised road that routed over some of the poorer neighborhoods and streets. Ed remembered the days when he, his brother, and their father would take the back roads, most of them dirt, that fingered off the main highway to the dump or the wrecking yards that his father liked to frequent. He pondered quietly as he stared out the window.
