THE GOLD FISH: The Red Eye (1.12)

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Uncle Joe pulled the station wagon down the cracked concrete driveway leading to Pop’s pier and stopped at the dilapidated shack that served as his workshop and base of operations. The kids spilled out.

“See ya later, alligator,” said Uncle Joe with a little wave.

“After while crocodile,” replied Joey. He pulled his fishing rod from the back of the wagon and leaned it carefully against the shack, pausing briefly to give it a loving caress before following Barbie through the rusty screen door.

The kids found Pop bent over his workbench, wrestling with a rusted bolt clamped before him in a vice.

“Goddamned son of a bitch,” said Pop through gritted teeth.

Knowing there was no use interrupting Pop while he worked, Barbie and Joey scanned the cluttered shack for anything new or interesting. But it was the same old crap. A hoarder’s stash of fishing, boating, and mechanical detritus that was nearly as old as Pop. A fully loaded fly strip by the window that hadn’t been changed in 5 years. Surplus cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, which Pop stocked up on whenever they were on sale. An ice box. A literal ice box. Pop often proclaimed that Frigidaire’s had nothing on a good old fashioned ice box and bagged ice cubes were for morons who liked to waste money. Every week, Pop went to the icehouse, picked up a huge block of ice with giant tongs, and stashed it in the box’s zinc-lined interior. Then, as needed, he would take an ancient ice pick sticky with god-knows-what, and attack that block like a Viking berserker, producing shards that would either be thrown in an old Styrofoam cooler alongside his cans of beer and bottles of Coca Cola or wrapped in a paper towel for him to suck like a popsicle.

As Barbie’s eyes skipped past the ice box, she realized it had probably been awhile since she’d joined Pop on one of those trips to the icehouse. She loved going there; it smelled great. Clean and metallic with hints of straw and sawdust. She wanted to ask Pop to take her again, but knew it was best not to ask at this particular moment. Like her mother, Pop didn’t tolerate interruptions. He was a one-thing-at-a-time kinda guy.

Pop finally freed the rusted bolt from its nut with an ebullient “got you, you bastard,” and dropped both into an old coffee can filled with strong-smelling liquid. Satisfied that the last 30 minutes of effort had saved him 2 cents, he swiveled in his chair and tipped his dirty captain’s hat back on his balding head to greet his redheaded grandchildren.

“Well, if it isn’t Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber. Come to help. Probably more of a nuisance than anything, but I’ll take what I can get.”

Barbie and Joey stifled grins. Pop’s bark was -- most the time, at least -- worse than his bite. But they knew Pop’s drill and stood at attention just the same. It was best to start things off right.

Pop wiped his hands on a dirty rag and stuffed it back into its usual storage space: the backside of his stained and threadbare khakis. Those rags touched his butt crack, his grandchildren would often proclaim, which both horrified and tickled them in equal measure. And whenever one of these rags was encountered in the wild -- on the pier, on a counter, inside the boat -- the cousins would flick and kick at them, squealing with delight if they touched one other. It was a cheap and babyish thrill perhaps -- nothing compared to stealing smokes, hitchhiking, or running from perverts -- but Barbie figured there was nothing wrong with good, clean fun.

“All right,” Pop said, hitching up his pants. “Let me show you what needs doing.”

Pop’s boat, the Helen K, was a 1965 Owen’s Cabin Cruiser, and was his pride and joy. It was named after Helen, Barbie’s other grandmother, who unlike Hazel, was neither a smoker nor a cackler. Helen was more of a hummer, a strategy she’d discovered was essential to her mental health given the bulk of her day was spent following along in Pop’s wake performing damage control. In contrast, the Helen K was relatively stationary, leaving the dock only for the occasional fishing trip or when Joan and Betty shamed Pop into springing for the gas it took to cruise her.

As evidenced by the wrestling match with the bolt, Pop was a notorious cheap skate. The kind of guy who covered holes in his canvas sneakers with a piece of tissue and white shoe polish, rather than buy a new pair. He was a fixer, not a shopper. But he was also a thrill seeker. When he did manage to stomach the cost of gas, he would open up the throttle and let the Helen K fly, his grandchildren clinging to the foredeck for dear life and screaming with delight and terror. Pop would spin circles and crash headlong into waves with what seemed like the express purpose of either drenching his progeny or flinging them off into the drink to drown merciless deaths.

So it was the promise of such future excitement -- however rare it might actually be -- that drove Barbie and Joey to help maintain the boat’s 30 feet of chrome and teak bright work. They weren’t exactly happy to do it, but they knew the piper had to be paid one way or the other.

Today was one of the paying days. Joey, armed with a tin of metal polish and a clean rag (which he had made doubly sure came fresh from the rag box and not Pop’s butt crack) worked on the chrome railings, while Barbie tackled the more difficult job -- as was equal to her seniority and capabilities -- of laying an even, dust-free layer of varnish on the teak edging.

While the temperature was nowhere near as high as the day before, after two hours, the kids were hungry and hot, their fair, freckled faces red as beets. Joey sang listlessly to himself. “George, George, George of the Jungle, strong as he can be...”

Barbie joined in. “George, George, George of the Jungle, watch out for the tree...”

“Sounds like you two are having too much fun,” announced Pop, who had seemed to materialize out of nowhere. “I thought I was paying you to work, not goof off,”

Joey looked up eagerly. “You’re paying us?!”

“Figure of speech.” Pop raised a frosty bottle of Coca Cola to his lips and drank deeply before raising it their direction. “You can bet your bippy I wouldn’t pay workers the likes of you two knuckleheads. Surprised you haven’t sunk her yet.”

“Har-de-har-har,” cracked Joey. His eyes devoured Pop’s Coke, noticing how a tiny ice chip was just now sliding tantalizingly down its glass side. He licked his lips.

“We’re almost done,” said Barbie.

“Almost done that bit, you mean,” said Pop with a belch.

“WHAT?!!” Joey and Barbie cried together.

Pop chuckled to himself. “Alright, alright. Don’t have a baby. Finish that up quick and then you can go get yourself some lunch over at the Red Eye. You can do the windows after lunch, and THEN, if there’s still time, you can see if anything’s biting. Don’t think I didn’t notice that fishing rod.” And with that, he waltzed off down the pier.

“Yay!” cried Barbie, thrilled by the promise of a little fishing.

Joey wasn’t so easily placated. “Why didn’t he bring us one of them cokes?!” He turned to Barbie, his eyes narrowing. “You can bet your bippy I’ll be getting one of those at the Red Eye. Maybe two.”

Thirty minutes later, Barbie and Joey burst through the swinging doors of the so-called Red Eye Yacht Club. It wasn’t a club of any sort, let alone a yacht club. It was just a smokey, dimly lit bar. But the club did have its own burgee, a pennant shaped flag featuring a blood-shot eye, which seemed to take its inspiration from the regular crew of slumped and bleary-eyed drunks who frequented the place.

Barbie and Joey sailed past the juke box and cigarette machines liked they owned the place, and hauled themselves up onto the bar’s black, barrel-shaped bar stools.

The proprietor, an old driftwood piece of a man everyone called Agony on account of his Eeyore-like disposition, ambled over to the red-faced kids.

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t the Commodore’s carrot tops. Sunburnt the color of steamed crabs,” said Agony.

“Hey Ag...” the cousins cried in unison. Agony was a crank, but they still got a kick out of him, which was why they let the carrot top reference slide.

Agony peered at them through wizened eyes. “Better get you some Noxema. ‘Less you like blisters?”

Barbie waved his concerns away. “We’re fine, Ag. How you doing?”

Not accustomed to inquiries about his well-being, Agony considered the question thoughtfully. “Oh, I got a terrible crick in my neck.” He rubbed at it before continuing. “Musta ‘slep’ wrong or somethin’. Coulda been that old pillow I been sleepin’ on. Gettin’ all lumpy.”

Joey had no patience for niceties or small talk. “We’re dying of thirst over here. Can we get some drinks...” he glanced at Barbie with a smirk, “without hearing your life story?”

Barbie’s eyes widened. This was exactly the kind of orneriness Joey was famous for, but it still made her go all squirmy inside.

Agony pointed at Barbie. “Well, she asked!”

“Ignore him, Ag. He’s just hot and thirsty.” Barbie pinched Joey in the shoulder until he yelped. “It’s making him forget his manners.”

Agony slapped his rag down on the bar and started wiping furiously. “Sheesh. Evrabody in a hurry these days. Don’t have time for nothing.”

“Sorry Ag.” Joey muttered, sounding distinctively like he was not the least bit sorry.

“Alright, alright,” said Agony. “Whaddaya want?”

Joey pointed to a big jar of picked eels behind the bar. “Gimme a coupla them eels, a bag of barbeque chips, and a Coke. With lotsa ice.”

Barbie cringed, preferring to catch eels rather than eat them. She ordered a grilled cheese, chips, and, of course, an Orange Crush. And with a reprimanding glare at Joey, added a please on the end before telling Agony to put it on Pop’s tab, a phrase which made her feel extremely grown up.

Agony nodded and wandered away.

Barbie shook her head at her cousin. “You gotta be nice, Joey.” 

He shrugged. “Do I?”

They snickered, then turned to what they always did at the Red Eye. They evaluated the collection of stuffed fish hanging behind the bar. It was one of their favorite pastimes at the Red Eye. Not that there were any changes since the last time they were there. It was the same old array. A long barracuda with fearsome teeth. A marlin whose giant dorsal fin was cracked and splintered with age. A silvery bonito. And the most unique and peculiar of all: an albino bottle-nosed dolphin. None of these fish had come out of Sue Creek, mind you. Sue Creek was brackish and laid on the south shore of Middle River, a fresh-water river which flowed south towards the Chesapeake Bay. The specimens hanging at the Red Eye were from more exotic, southern waters. Specimens that, to the cousins, were as alien as Martians.

Joey pointed to the barracuda, whom he had dubbed Chompers long ago. “I’d like to hang him over my bed, instead of that dumb old crucifix. Scare the devil away, he would.”

“Yeah, you need it,” giggled Barbie. She pointed at the white dolphin whom she had nicknamed after the cartoon ghost. “I’ll take Casper. I think he’s...” She lowered her voice and whispered dramatically, “magic.”

Agony returned with the drinks, which both kids grabbed eagerly.

“Thank you, Jesus!” cried Barbie after that first satisfying swig.

Joey guzzled his Coke in one go, then slammed the empty glass back down on the table, belched loudly, and told Agony to “give me another.”

Agony pursed his lips. “The Commodore say it’s alright? It’ll prolly rot your teeth out.”

“It’s fine, Ag. Just put it on the tab,” said Joey.

Barbie shook her head. “Watch out for that tree, George.”

Next → Magic (1.13)