“Tin Boat” by Jackson Cook, XI: short story

Tin Boat

So it was black morning, and Fred and I found ourselves on the Maine water in the tin boat. Fred was clinging to a rope—water skiing—that dragged behind Granny’s old silver tin-can boat. The throttle was disconnected from the stupid thing so that whenever you pushed it forward too hard it would pop! and you’d have to hammer it back into place before things got out of hand and you crashed into some dogs or something.

We sloshed and zogged down in the bay for a while before the sun even rose. Whenever we found the tide high in the morning like that we would seal ourselves down there to skim and talk and act young; when the tide got low we anchored the boat to go kill animals on Chippy’s Island, where the grassy-tree animals made silent conversation. I used to think that when everything would go south in the world Fred and I would go down to Chippy’s and make fires and sleep in tents and laugh a while. But everything keeps changing: Fred’s dead now, and I can’t sleep for more than five hours without waking up yelling in an absurd fit of rage about Bayberry and Boss.

But this morning, nothing changed. Nothing could corrupt Fred and I into thinking something would be different in a few years—we found ourselves too busy. Busy skimming and loving the orange sky and waiting for the tide to turn muddy to kill animals on Chippy’s.

I was operating Granny Paula’s boat feeling happy as the time passed slower than usual—Fred ski skimming—and I felt the kid let go. The boat lurched forward and I got nervous and yanked the throttle back and turned around. But he was waving his ski like a flag on the edge of Chippy’s.

I spun the wheel and pushed the throttle forward to go to Fred, but the next second the whole throttle system got torn off the Tin Boat, and I was out of control, barreling toward a dancing Fred. I tried to cut the engine, but my fingers were shaking.

It was too late now. Lousy me: Granny’s Tin Boat got obliterated on the rock ten yards off Chippy’s. I jumped right before it hit and paddled over to Fred—shaking and pooping my pants—so I barely saw the thing make contact with the rock. But I can tell you it sounded like when we crush beers on the bottom of our heels, though a lot more voluminous. Point is, the thing crippled.

“Jesus, Jack! Why didn’t you steer or something, you dumb idiot?”

“Shut up, I was in shock! You would’ve done the same thing Freddy, oh god.”

“Well.” Fred always took catastrophes the right way—never got rattled or anything—just stuck his head up and dealt with it.

We were in our bathing suits and barefooted with a mile of water between us and land.

“Look, no one’s awake. We’ll hang here for a while,” he saw me looking at the crumpled boat floating, “The thing was nothin’ but a beat-up piece of metal, anyway. I still got the ski, too!”

I caught my breath and sat down on a rock, pulling my hair and shaking as we sat there for a few hours, with our swimsuits and bare feet, watching the tide go bye and the sun go rise. We talked over our problems and Paula and sneakers and skis and new boats and girls. Eventually the sun was awake—teeth brushed and dressed for school like a ninth-grade Fred before everything went south—but it still wasn’t mudflats. And so we decided to walk through the oaks on Chippy’s.

We kicked sticks and stepped on mice and talked some more until there was nothing else to say. We fell into a loud silence then: eagles cawing and boat motors humming all around. And I suddenly remembered Paula’s crushed can boat, and wondered if anybody passed and started to look for us, and so I turned to ask Fred if we should venture back to the edge.

I was alone. So I called his name and my voice shook a little—remember, we were in the middle of all those oaks with nothing but bathing suits and barefeet, and when you’re that alone things start to get red-hot and fuzzy.

But Fred answered with a little Hey! and I felt fine. He was close, too, sitting on Chippy’s edge with a wormer, both looking at the sky and weaving brown branch garlands. A wormer is a Mainer who waits for mudflats to dig around in the gross mud for some wormies to sell to random fishermen for some dough. This Wormer was a skinny old guy with a few black hairs dotting his frail yellow body, and I noticed how he sat upright and bobbed back and forth like a buoy—humming a sad little song when no one spoke to him.

Fred said, “Jack, this is Ollssen. He lives here, and heard us crash. How ‘bout that?” I looked for a hint of sarcasm in my older cousin, but there was none. I concluded: the kid had lost it.

“Oh! ‘ey, Jack! ‘eard you ‘avin’ boat troubles and such.”—a thick Maine accent.

And after talking to the prune, I thought he was mellow. The first guy I ever met who lived on an island, and he wasn’t anything like I’d thought. He was zen and not a serial killer with a knife and beady eyes like Granny Paula tries to tell us those hobos were. Ollssen was simply an old man with a few feathers sticking out of his head, wearing nothing but underwear and shoes, who liked to weave garlands out of sticks in his free time and didn’t like this fast world with its money guys. And when he talked he fidgeted with little sticks and

just did whatever he pleased. Granny Paula would hate him.

“You know da best part ‘bout livin’ on dis’ ‘ere islan’?” he would say when the conversation died down.

“What’s that?”

“Dere’s no mean ol’ neighbors tryina stick a fork in yer eye! Agaggagagahh!”

Suddenly, with Ollssen, I hated everything else: us three, sitting and talking and laughing would have been a nuisance to anyone of my family members. Get away from that bum! Dad would say, Jacky! My god! or something like that. Adulation for my dear Fred and pruney-old Ollssen made me happy, and all the while, Paula’s boat was ripped to shreds on the other side of the island. But I didn’t care, just sitting on rocks with this old palpitating man and blonde young Fred. The sky was still yellow-white now, and it began to melt my face.

The policeman came shortly after. He was a Maine policeman with no uniform, a gun, a badge, and a need for authority.

“Hey! Is that your boys boat over there?” He was pudgy and wore black sunglasses. I felt bad for him, lame guy. “Got a call from Paula Ruth about two missing boys who went off in her boat early this morning. You folks know anything about this,?”

“Well yea, offisuh, I do. Ya see, dese boys crashed deir boat dis mornin’ waterskiin, and we was jus sittin’ here chattin’ and waitin’ in da sun fer sum help ta come our way. Innit beautiful?” Ollssen said. He was the sweetest man I’d ever met.

“Why didn’t you call the police, sir? This kid is bleeding for chrissakes!” I scraped my leg getting out of the water; it was soaked in red.

“O’ mistah! Ion even got a house, let alone a cell-phone!”

“You’re a bum?”

“Das right. Livin’ on dis ‘ere islan’! You wanna know da best part ‘bout livin’ on a islan’?”

“You are aware that this island is privately owned, right?” He ignored the question.

“No, officah, I did nawt know dat.”

“Ok. Let’s go, boys. All three of ya.” He acted corny because he wanted to be some sort of legit cop. And it pissed me off.

“Why?” said Fred with a hostile tone. I looked over at him.

“Don’t give me lip, boy,”—corny policeman voice—“Because. Your grand-ma called the police and is

worried sick about the both of yas!”

“But why him too?” He pointed to our friend Ollssen. “Why, he’s going downtown for trespassing!” “That’s just unfair!”

“That’s enough lip from you boy!” A corny guy.

“Shut up you, fat ass!” Fred had that wild look in his eyes he always got before he started flipping out.

“That’s it!” The policeman whipped out his gun, “Let’s go. I want no more attitude the rest of the way!” He was real excited to whip out that gun. And it worked: Fred calmed down; guns scared him.

There we went, away from Chippy’s with the cop in his nice fast boat back to shore. But on the way, Fred got up and started choking the damn police man. It was the most spontaneous thing that had ever happened to me, but no lie, Fred got up and locked his arm around the pudgy officer’s fat neck and didn’t let go. The boat steered off the path.

I screamed and tried to pry him off, and Fred yelled and shouted and didn’t budge; he was going wild and crazy and there was just nothing I could do. Wilson sat on his seat looking up.

The rest of the details aren’t important. The boat crashed, yes—on the rocks outside of land—but the cop was fine and radioed to his buddies who took Fred to prison where he called home for just a year— his lawyer was good and pleaded stress and mental illness and a whole other load of bull. But Fred doesn’t really matter; he’s dead now.

What matters is Ollssen: that prune just walked away! After the boat crashed and the cop was distracted with Fred, Ollssen climbed up to shore and walked away, not turning around or anything. I imagine he walked down to the town or swam to another island to live on, but I just don’t know where that crazy zen old island-dweller went off to next.

As for me, I went back home and cried.

- Jackson Cook, XI: sudden fiction