South of the Pumphouse (7 page)
D
on and Earl walked across the parking lot to the public restroom. Don headed to the first of three stalls, where he pulled down his pants and took a seat. Earl, who was right behind him, faced off with a urinal and started to piss.
“You didn't tell me Pee Wee was comin',” said Donny as he started to empty his bowels.
“Shit, I haven't seen you all week!” Earl responded. “And I ain't heard from him since the funeral. We'd talked about a possible fishin' trip, and then he calls me a couple days ago and says he wants to go.” Earl gave a final squirt, shook away the last droplets, then tucked himself back into his pants.
Inside the stall, Don was fiddling with a tinfoil pipe fabricated from a cigarette package. He key-scooped some powder from a small plastic zipper bag he had just removed from his shirt pocket.
“Yeah?” He pressed the makeshift pipe to his lips, inhaling as he lit the powder. He simultaneously took a draw and fartedâloudly.
Hearing the reverberated flatulence echo across the tiled walls and floor of the men's room, Earl bellowed, “Damn, son! You're gonna blow your guts out!” He laughed, then added, “Anyhow, I don't think he likes you callin' him Pee Wee.”
Don held in his hit as long as he could and then exhaled. “Shit! He's the one that used to dress like that Pee Wee Herman faggot and ride around on that pussy-ass scooter. Here.” He passed the pipe to Earl under the stall door.
“Yeah, that was a long time ago,” said Earl, before putting the pipe to his lips.
“Where the hell's he been, anyhow?” asked Don as he released another loud fart, followed by the telltale splash of a stool dropping into the bowl.
“Sacramento. He graduated state college. Got some sort of job in Berkeley now.” Earl's nostrils were greeted by the pungent odor of Don's excrement. “Damn, boy, whew! That's some mean stank there.” He took a big hit from the pipe and could feel the warmth as the smoke hit his lungs, sending a shiver between his shoulder blades and shooting a tinge up across his scalp and down his back. He felt the synapses firing like a thousand tiny Pop Rocks crackling in unison through his skull. He grew faint for a moment. Flashing back.
One summer vacation, years ago when they were still preteens, Earl, Donny, and Earl's cousin Tracy were playing a game in the living room while Earl's parents were at work. The trick was for one of them to take twenty quick breaths and then one of the others would grab him (or her) from behind, wrapping his arms around the person's chest and squeezing, producing a quick, low-budget head rush.
It was all good fun until Donny squeezed Earl a bit too long and too hard, and he blacked out, falling face first to the ground and smacking his front tooth out on the corner of the coffee table on the way down. He convulsed on the new beige shag carpet, blood pouring from his mouth as Tracy screamed in the background.
When Earl finally came to, Donny was holding his head and pressing a cool wet towel to the new hole in his mouth.
“Look, Earl, it's like this. I threw the football in the house when you weren't looking and hit you in the tooth,” Donny rapidly explained. “I'll pay for the rug and dentist and shit. Just blame it on me. Got that? That's our story. Got it, Earl?”
Donny had figured that Earl's parents, like most of the other kids' parents, didn't much like him anyway. So what the hell? He'd be banned from coming around that summer for sure, but at least Earl could still come out. Donny was always quick like that; always had an angle or an out. He was good at damage control.
The fact was, Earl's father had always had a soft spot for Donny, even though he knew what a pain in the ass the kid could be. He also knew that Donny's folks didn't give two shits about their son. Donny's dad was an on-again, off-again car salesman who spent most of his time hanging out in the Limelight Tavern nuzzling up to lonely housewives. Donny's mother spent her afternoons at the Silver Ridge Tavern
being
a lonely housewife. A good number of weekends, Donny would spend the night at Earl's place, just to stay away from his parents' bickering and battery.
Earl's mind focused as he stepped to the basin to wash his hands.
“Hey, remember that day I knocked my tooth out on the coffee table?”
“Yeah, you dipshit. It cost me a hunert-n-twenty bucks,” Donny sniggered. “I got to finger-bang your cousin, though. What was her name again?”
“Tracy. That's right, you prick. I'm sittin' there with a towel full of ice cubes on my face waiting for my ol' man to come home and kick my ass, and you're in there fiddlin' with my cousin. How the hell'd you pull that one off?”
“Charm, buddy. I'm just a charmer.”
Another of Donny's farts resonated across the tiles.
Back at the ramp, Ed was sitting on the engine cover of the boat, feeling a bit bored. He looked at his watch and saw that it was 8:04 a.m. He groaned to himself, “Fucking MC Hammer shit.” Digging through his jacket, he pulled out a big roach and a Bic lighter. He lit the roach, inhaled deeply, and before exhaling, muttered through the smoke, “What a fucking dick.”
What irked Ed even more than the notion of spending the day dealing with Donny Vowdy's personality was the realization that the guy's presence would isolate him from Earl.
What the hell did I come here for?
he fumed. It was supposed to have been just him and his brother, spending the day fishing, bonding on one of their few common interests. Now, instead, it would be Earl and Donny, and just like in his youth, he would more than likely end up feeling left out.
Ed dug through his jacket and pulled out a plastic baggie. Eyeballing its contents, he exclaimed, “Now we're talking.” Out of the baggie, he pulled out two enormous magic-mushroom caps.
If this doesn't get me through this day, then nothing will
. He popped the caps into his mouth and chewed, wincing at the bitter taste.
Why can't they grow these things in something better tasting than cow shit?
Gagging, he blurted out, “Goddamn, that's nasty.” He reached into the ice chest and grabbed a beer, desperately trying to wash the foul taste away.
Back in the men's room stall, Donny wiped his ass and inspected the paper. “Fuuuck! My ass is bleedin' again.”
Earl was overwhelmed by the stench. “I can't take this shit sandwich in here. I'm leavin' this on the sink.” He set the pipe down on the porcelain. “Hurry it up. Tide's turning early this afternoon.”
Earl headed out the door and back toward the boat.
“Almost there, bud, almost there.” Donny stood, yanked up his pants, flushed the toilet, and walked to the sink. Firing the pipe, he inhaled deeply and held it for a moment. Looking into the mirror, he exhaled and noticed what appeared to be a blackhead on the left side of the bridge of his nose. He smiled at his reflection, which exposed his less than perfect teeth. Finger-combing his greasy, disheveled hair, he spoke into the dank air, “Now that's one good lookin' sonsabitch!”
Earl and Ed waited patiently until Donny came strutting back onto the dock. As he approached the boat, he announced to the two of them, “I feel like I just dropped three pounds out the old shit chute.”
“Lovely,” said Ed.
The boat had already been idling for some time when Donny finally stepped on board. Earl popped her into reverse and slowly backed away from the dock, spinning the stern around to point the bow down the channel. He then shifted into forward gear. Donny reached down into the ice chest and grabbed a cold beer.
“Ya know, Pee Wee? Earl told me not to call you that anymore. Cuz he thinks you don't like it. But I'll be damned if I can remember what the hell your real name is.”
“It's Ed.”
“Ed?”
“Yes, Ed.”
“Ed? I like that. Ed, Ed, gives good head,” Donny sang out, laughing hysterically.
“Yeah, that's real clever, Don,” replied Ed. “Shit, I never heard that one before.”
“Really? You want me to say it again?” Donny laughed as he took the cap off his beer.
“No, that's all right.”
Don took a massive slug from his beer and then shouted at Earl, who was navigating the boat through the no-wake zone, “Hey, where we goin' anyhow?”
“Just a little south of the Pumphouse.”
“South of the ol' Pumphouse, eh? All right, you ol' greasy pecker-puller. Let's go!”
Donny flipped the cap from his beer into the water as Earl punched the throttle.
E
d had always loved the ride out to San Pablo Bay from the Richmond Harbor. Besides catching a glimpse of Hughes's seaplanes, it was a journey through history, though much had changed. Just past where the planes once sat was the site of the old Ford Motor plant. In the late '70s and '80s, the yard for the plant became a layover spot for incoming Japanese import vehicles. Before anyone knew that they made anything other than sporty motorcycles, Ed and Earl had seen Honda cars by the hundreds sitting on the wharf, waiting to be delivered to economically minded Californians.
Further down the channel was the massive dry-docks where the two boys had seen many a large vessel sitting in the yard in various stages of repair. Beyond that was the scrapping area where the upper helm of an old World War II submarine stood for a good many years. As a kid, Ed had often marveled over the action-packed adventures that the vessel must have seen in its day and always imagined that the random blemishes dotting the rusted exterior must have been bullet holes from some long ago battle fought with the “Japs.”
On the south side of the channel ran the rock wall that extended from Brooke Island, where it was rumored that Bing Crosby once kept a duck-hunting lodge. Ed and Earl had always fished the flats around the island for leopard sharks and dogfish with their grandfather during the summer breaks. They passed the posh little area known as Brickyard Cove, an upscale grouping of town houses and a yacht marina built over the remains of an old quarry. Like most of Richmond Harbor, these places saw their heyday during the peak of the war, when the area bustled with productivity fueled by the urgency to defeat the evil of the Axis powers.
Beyond the rock wall that protected the entrance to the harbor, they turned north toward the San Rafael Bridge, a few miles ahead. Past the Standard Oil tanker piers and the island of Red Rock, the bridge stood like a huge, serpentine iron beast, awkwardly stretching some five miles across and linking the Chevron refinery on the east bank to the San Quentin federal penitentiary on the west. The bridge had never been known as one of the more attractive structures in the region, but it was the definitive dividing landmark between the San Francisco and San Pablo bays.
And then came the islandsâthe Brothers and the Sisters. The Brothers were larger and to the east, while the Sisters, to the northwest, lay nearer to the Marin shoreline. As kids, Ed and Earl marveled at the old lighthouse that stood on the larger of the two Brothers.
As they journeyed onward, Ed reflected on these random pieces of the past and began to feel the effects of the psilocybin mushrooms. A telltale tingle rippled along the sides of his tongue, around his temples, and on the back of his neck. He shuddered. The colors of the beautiful autumn day became more and more vivid. As the boat approached the first of several markers that flanked each side of the channel, Ed chuckled to himself at the enhanced glow he was experiencing from the florescent reds and greens that differentiated the port and starboard markers.
With the dominant din from the engine box at the center stern of the vessel, there had been little chitchat between the three men during the journey. Occasionally Earl pointed out a landmark, and Donny shouted a few random commentaries into Earl's ear, evoking laughter from both men. Ed continued to drift undisturbed with his thoughts as they made their way north.
When the boat approached the fifth channel marker, Earl veered to the west, aiming toward a distant grouping of pilings that stood alone in the vast openness. For Ed, the Pumphouse was a familiar image, one that he saw many a weekend as a kid. As they drew closer, he noticed a group of fishing boats almost the same size as Earl's, about a mile or so south. He could see the Pumphouse more clearly now, and by Ed's memory, it didn't appear to have changed much in the decade plus that had passed since he last spied it.
Earl pulled back on the throttle as they approached the Pumphouse, circling round for Ed's benefit.
“Well, there it is, Ed,” announced Earl, and then asked rhetorically, “Does it look any different?” Earl pushed the throttle forward when they finished the circle, and they headed back south toward the other boats. Eyeing the water, they cruised slowly. Earl made a wide swing to point the bow north into the flow of the outgoing tide, then he pulled the controls into neutral, bringing the boat to a stop.
“This looks like the spot.” Earl shut off the motor and stepped forward to drop anchor. “Oh yeah, lookin' good today; lookin' good today,” he muttered to himself. He let out the rope until he was satisfied it would hold, then tied it to the cleat on the bow. “Well, boys, let's get us a stur-geee-own! Rig 'em up.” He clapped and rubbed his hands together in excitement.
“'Bout damn time,” said Donny, taking the final swig from his beer and throwing the bottle loudly into a five-gallon bucket lying to stern.
Earl looked around and pointed toward the small fleet of boats in the distance. “There's Red's boat.”
Earl had deliberately chosen to fish several hundred yards north of the fleet. Ed remembered that this had been a routine tactic of the boys' late father, and he wasn't surprised to see his brother follow suit. Donny was less enthusiastic, however, complaining that they should fish where everybody else did so they could “gang up” on the potential prey.
