Technicolor Pulp (18 page)

Being out on the water gets confusing. Nothing to do but think, and yet, one loose rope catches an ankle and it’s over. It’s
about Lindsey. It’s about money. It’s about Ray. It’s about an empty trap landing in front of me. I open the trap, tear the
fish in half, jam it into the bait box, close the trap and throw the trap off the back of the moving boat. The traps are strung
7 or 8 together, so there’s no time to stop. Joe’s already throwing the next trap back at me. A string of traps will snap
your leg like it’s a dry twig, pulling you into the water before you even know it. The bait fish sit rotting in the sun in
100-gallon drums until I open them every morning with a stomach full of last night’s booze. When I tear them in half, the
spines snap and pierce my heavy rubber gloves, so my hands are always infected and bleeding.

A couple of times a day, Joe pulls up a trap and there’s a sea eel caught inside. Joe dumps it out in the boat and either
stomps on its head, or lets it swim around on the floor. “You little raunchy cunts! How do ya like me now? How do ya like
me now with a squashed head!” All the time yelling, “Ahoy matey” or just howling in general. I don’t like the eels at all,
alive or dead. They’re big… 3… 4… 5 feet long and thick like fire hoses.
Mean, with hate in their eyes and mouths. All they want to do is get back in the cold dark ocean and get on with their lives.
But they can’t. They’re either too retarded from Joe’s boot to the skull, or they haven’t found the little drain hole yet.
Sometimes, they’re too fat for the drain hole and they have to wait for the next big wave to come over the side and set them
free. They writhe between my legs and scowl at me as I tear rotting vile fish in half. My stomach jumps like a volcano on
angel dust. Back and forth between my legs, rubbing on my boots, waiting for me to lean too far over, waiting for me to be
next to them. Joe could care less, they don’t bother him. They bother me though… They know they can get to me.

Joe’s from Boston. We tended bar together over the summer. I think he got sick of hearing me bitch back at the bar. I always
thought he hated me, so one day I mustered all my courage and told him to FUCK OFF… Then he started to love me. The best thing
about Joe, other than his girlfriend, who I desperately want to fuck, is a long J-shaped scar that he has down the line of
his jaw, on the left side of his face. I don’t know how he got it. It’s so big that I’m afraid to ask. It had to be something
horrendous, and I’ve got an honest respect for Joe’s insanity, especially now that he’s got MY life in his hands every day.
When we’re out on the water, I don’t ask him about his girl, or his big scar, I just tear the fish.

“Joe… Don’t you ever get lonely out here?”

“No, Jimi me boy… But I do get horny sometimes.”

Oh yeah, that’s the other thing. Joe thinks he’s like Ahab or something, with the “Ahoy” and the “me boy” stuff… Who knows?

“How’s that bitty, Lindsey… Do ya ever hear from her or anything?”

“Not really… I… We… Broke that thing off when I got back from London.”

“That’s a shame, matey… She had such lovely BUOYS… Wasn’t a real smart girl though….”

I’d never thought about whether or not Lindsey was smart. I don’t know WHAT I thought about her as a person. All I ever saw
was my little image, just part of some movie I’m trapped in. With the eels, and the water stinging the cuts in my hand, and
the stomach churning, that’s where Lindsey is, in my stomach, all just part of what’s making me sick—some mix of nausea and
emptiness.

“… Are ya gonna see her again or what?”

“I hope not.”

“Ya mean that?”

“I don’t know… Do I?”

“Look, I don’t wanna be one to pry… But I AM feeding your drunken ass these days… And I gotta tell you that you’re dying…
Maybe it’s not her… Maybe I’m all wrong… Maybe I’m just a BIG ASSHOLE… I mean, I know I’m THAT any-ways… But you better figure
out whatever it is and get the fuck on with it….”

“I don’t know, I mean… We said good-bye and I
think we BOTH knew that it was definitely over… We haven’t spoken since.” Right then, a swell hits the boat and water rushes
over the side. There’s action on the boat as trapped eels heave themselves about, trying to get back into the sea. I get thrown
over, across the boat, and Joe grabs me. There’s a second where our eyes meet… This guy… Helping me, trying to keep me up
and me wavering… Too weak to stand on my own… Joe looking at me like he doesn’t trust me.

“Thanks man!” I say, spitting out a mouthful of ocean.

“You gotta see those comin’… I told you to watch the fuckin’ swells… They come in sets… You’da been dead in 45 seconds if
you went in that water… Yur like a fuckin’ zombie!”

The boat settles back down and I look over the side. A string of traps trails under the hull of the boat, like tiny shadowy
coffins on a leash.

“That water’s cold isn’t it?”

“Fuckin’ right it’s cold… Lemme tell ya some-thin’, me boy… What you need is some fresh pussy… The only way to forget the
old stuff is to kill it with somethin’ better…” he says as he throws an empty cage at my head. “… Sometimes I fuck a broad
just to keep some distance between me and the old lady… Nothin’ like some side pussy to keep the steady pussy in line… But
that isn’t what you need…” Another trap comes sailing. “… You need somethin’ to make you forget… You’re losin’ it… And out
here on the water, it ain’t safe for
either of us, if you’re all lovesick…” Another trap lands at my feet, as I jam a bloody shred of a fish into the trap in front
of me.

“Yeah, you’re probably right…” I say as I toss the cage over the back and open the next.

“PROBABLY… I AM RIGHT… Some fresh pussy’ll help heal the wound… But I’m tellin’ ya, in two weeks, I won’t need you anymore
out here, and the island’ll be empty… Nothin’ but scary clam-head pussy out here in the winter… With the sun goes the fine
cunt!”

“So whatta ya think I oughta do?”

“Get some money from somebody and GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!”

Small problems have a way of growing up into big problems. Money’s that kinda thing. Time’s just the opposite. One minute,
I got money in my hand and life’s beautiful, and the next thing I know, time’s up, and I need money. The days get shorter
and the bar tabs get longer and the lobsters learn to hide better and I gotta start makin’ calls. It’s a sensitive thing.
You gotta call a person up, make them feel special, ask about their life, be happy, tighten the bond. Everybody’s got a little
extra money to lend, it’s just a matter of becoming worthy of the deed. It’s a whole game, a mind-set. I knew it was inevitable.
Time and money. Time and money. Time to find the money.

I make a few preliminary calls to some old standbys, just to get a feel for the terrain: old roommates, uncles, sisters. There’s
always mom and dad, but that’s a whole other can of worms. The trick IS to get money from people you don’t really have to
deal with all that much. I try to borrow a couple hundred from the parents, and who knows what kind of strings might be attached.
I might have to make a promise that entails a haircut or something. I mean, the thought HAS crossed my mind, but as a rule,
MOM AND DAD ARE THE LAST RESORT. Every day I roam the streets and the bars, saying my hellos, bumming shots, and flipping
through the Rolodex of my mind. A call here, a message there, NO LUCK. One day, as I sit at the end of the bar at D. Ryan’s,
trying to turn a fiver into a blackout, BINGO! Who is it… Who is it that feels responsible for my well being? Who is it that’s
gotta deep paternal vibe for me… Maybe even loves me? BINGO… The Godfather!

Tony Unsel, a.k.a. Antonio Unsellino. YES… The italian bloodlines, so slyly hidden behind names like Banks and Unsel, produce
things like godfathers. Tony owns a big plumbing business in Cleveland. I drink for another week just waiting to make the
call. CHEAP METHOD ACTING. The more dire my situation becomes,
the better I’ll be. My sanity on a fine line, my well-being long gone. I’m obsessed with the money. Getting the money, finding
the money, money’s the answer. Money’ll get me through this, it’s all about money. Sweat on my palms, greasy hair brushed
from outta my face, I sit in bathrooms, looking into mirrors after I piss, rehearsing for the moment, THE BIG CALL. I haven’t
talked to Uncle Tony in years. Our only communication is a C-note in my mailbox every Christmas. Enough for me to ONLY say
the best things about my Uncle Tony. Hands trembling as I dial, butterflies in the stomach, urine stinging only the shaft
of my limp penis. It would be hard to feel like less of a man. The phone rings twice before the secretary answers.

“Hi, yeah… Is Mr. Unsel in? This is Jimi Banks, his godson.” I give her the full family deal because I know it carries a lot
of weight around the office. It’s the heavy italian trip with all the guilt and pathos trimmings. When I was little, I thought
Tony was the richest guy in the world. Every visit to his house came complete with a no-holds-barred run to Children’s Palace.
The answer to all my HOT WHEEL prayers. The secretary asks me if I can hold. I say “yes.”

Waiting is no good, the fog begins to clear and I start to feel stupid. What am I doing? I haven’t spoken to this guy in years.
I become aware of my hand holding the phone… The wind in my face, whipping around the corner of the phone booth… My
sweaty sore toes wriggling in my wet boots… And the tremble of my torso… The stomach tightening, trying to stop the shaking…
Am I cold?… Or am I just scared?… The waiting… It’s too long… I don’t wanna think like this… All last week’s prep lost in
this waiting… I’m a wreck… I’m a loser… I don’t even know this fucking guy… Who is he… Who am I… How do we even know each
other… Maybe he doesn’t even know me… I’m drowning… I’m dying… I don’t wanna be this aware… He’s going through a bad divorce…
I only hope the pain has made him more desperate to be good to OTHER members of the family… Help the old godson out… Right
a few wrongs somewhere else in the world… I’ll just ask him for 400, it sounds better than 500… NO… I’ll tell him I need work…
Act like I wanna be a man, solve my own problems… Things are slow for him… He won’t wanna hassle with the unions, he’ll offer
me cash… I’ll be on my way to anywhere! The phone clicks.

“Hello?”

“Uncle Tony… It’s Jimi Banks, how ya doin’?”

“Good, Jimi… Where are you?”

“Actually, I’m pretty far away, up north, off Cape Cod… We gotta good connection, don’t we?” I blurt, trying to make small
talk. It’s tough to put a make on Tony’s mood; between him being at the office and my angst-storm, I’m scrambling.

“So what’s up, Jimi?”

“Well, Unc…” stressing the UNC, emphasizing the family bond. “Things’re actually kinda tough right now… And I was wondering
if maybe I couldn’t drop down there and hook into a few quick weeks of work with you?” I’d done a summer with the Uncle when
I was 15. “I gotta make some car payments in a hurry and I’m getting evicted from my place. It gets real slow up here after
the tourists leave… I was hoping maybe I could come and carry some pipe for you… Make some money to get out to L.A. with.”
It seemed to make so much sense when I was drunk at the bar, but now it really sounded weak! I’m losing! None of this makes
sense. I’ve lost faith in my lie. They don’t believe it if YOU don’t!

“I wish I could say ‘yes,’ Jimi, but I don’t have enough work to keep my own boys busy. You’re a little too old to sneak by
the unions… They’d think you’re a SCAB… It wouldn’t be good, even if I COULD do it.”

Like a prank call I can’t hang up on. Pacing around the booth on a leash with a target on my back.

“Oh yeah… Things are that slow, huh?”

“Things are REAL slow.”

No one’s taking anyone’s lead. It’s a stalemate and I’m drowning in the process. No familiar tones, this is NOT the same guy
who used to shower me in G.I. Joes and I’m not that funny little kid… Or maybe, that’s exactly what I am? I go for broke.

“Unc, maybe we could talk about a little loan
then? Sort of a belated graduation present, you know I graduated from college, didn’t you? I’m in a real bind up here! I don’t
have enough money to get my car off the island! I’m trapped… I wouldn’t be calling you like this, if I didn’t have to!”

A silence ensues, and from where I’m standing, it can’t be TOO GOOD. I’ve done everything but beg. There’s no control, it
became something I didn’t want it to become. I’ve lost my form, I have no form, no ground to stand on. This talk, this conversation,
became a plea to someone, to anyone, to everyone.

“You know, it’s funny, Jimi, I haven’t heard from you in five or six years. I haven’t SEEN you since high school and you worked
for me that one summer… I send you money every year at the holidays without so much as a single thank-you note, not even a
phone call… And now, you interrupt me in the middle of my work day, from out of nowhere, and you ask me for money… What did
YOU think I was going to say? I mean, Christ, you coulda called me once last month or something, but no, outta nowhere you
call….”

“Look, Unc… I know it’s kinda weird,” I say, grasping. “I had some work I thought was coming up and it fell through… I don’t
know where else to go. I can’t call my dad. I don’t wanna look like a failure in his eyes… You were the only person I could
think of.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he says, finally, “let me make some calls… See if anyone around here has anything.
Call me back next week, before Wednesday, because I’m going away.”

“So you’ll see if anyone’s got a little work for me?”

“Yeah… Lemme see what’s out there.”

“Well, if there isn’t any out there, Unc… Then maybe we could talk about a little loan?”

“Yea, we’ll talk then. Look, I gotta go now, Jimi, so call me,” and CLICK.

To say that I feel like the lowest worm right now would be to speak with a certain degree of confidence. The clarity of the
moment, THINKING I’m a slick petty con man, and SEEING that I’m really just a BEGGAR. Just a pleading, apologizing, stroking
little beggar with no respect or balls.

I never DO make that second phone call to Uncle Tony. There isn’t a glass of whiskey in this world strong enough to give me
the guts to make that one. I never even thought about sending the guy a lousy thank-you note? What a mistake. No form, no
form at all.