along the far wall.
"Cold
out tonight!" she said, sounding shocked: Maine, cold? "What can I
get you?"
I
ordered a shot of Jack Daniel's, a beer, and two rare hamburgers. I knocked
back the shot and ordered another, sipped my beer. When my burgers arrived, I
wolfed them down then ordered another beer. That ache you get after doing crank,
the sense that your brain has been walled up behind broken rubble—that began to
subside, replaced by the slow pulse of alcohol.
I
nursed my second beer. I was in no hurry to head back to the Lighthouse, though
the thought of hiding dirty Kleenex from Merrill Libby did have its appeal. A
nearly full moon crept above the black harbor. It wasn't yet seven o'clock. I
angled my chair so I could catch the light from the hurricane lantern on my
table and opened my copy of Deceptio Visus.
I
turned the pages carefully—it was probably the most valuable thing I
owned—until I reached Kamestos's brief introduction.
I
have called this collection of photographs Deceptio Visus, "deceiving
sight." But there is nothing here that is deceptive. Our gaze changes all
that it falls upon. Within these photographs, I hope, the discerning eye may
see the truth.
It
had been a long time since I'd read those words. Once they had seemed to
explain the world to me, the way I saw things; the sense I had that someone, or
something, watched me. But I had lost that way of seeing or feeling, if indeed
I'd ever possessed it; if it even existed.
Now
it all just seemed like shit. I looked around for my waitress to order another
beer.
Two
of the people at the bar were watching me. One was a solid-looking man with a
graying beard and close-cropped brown hair. A rat-tail braid dangled across his
shoulder. As he cocked his head, light glanced off a jeweled stud in one
earlobe. He wore a red flannel shirt, stained jeans, heavy workboots. He had a
cigarette tucked behind one ear and a yellow pencil behind the other.
Beside
him sat the man I'd run into at the Lighthouse. He stared at me, frowning
slightly. Then he stood, picked up his wineglass, and walked over.
"Can
I see that?" He pointed at my book.
Before
I could say anything, before I could even remember the stolen photograph inside
it, he picked up Deceptio Visus.
"No,"
I said, but he had already opened it. He glanced at the copyright page then
handed it back to me.
"My
copy's signed," he said.
I
grabbed the book and shoved it into my bag beneath the table. When I looked up,
the other guy had joined his friend.
"Did
he try to steal your book?" he said. "Because I can call the police
if you want me to." He plucked the cigarette from behind his ear, bent
over my hurricane glass, and lit it. His hands were crosshatched with scars,
and the tip of one thumb was missing. "Smoke?"
"No,"
I said.
As
if by magic, the waitress appeared and set down two more beers and a glass of
red wine.
You
know you're not supposed to do that in here, Toby," she scolded.
The
bearded man smiled sheepishly, pinched out his cigarette, and stuck it back
behind his ear. His friend stood, silent, beside him. The sleeve of his suede
jacket had ridden up so that his wrist was exposed, the scar grayish in the dim
light.
I
looked at him uneasily. I hated that he'd seen me before I saw him. The sense
I'd had earlier, that overpowering taint of fear and damage—it wasn't gone, but
it was definitely subdued. I thought of how he'd jumped away and cracked his
head on the door.
I'd
surprised him. Now he'd surprised me. I picked up one of the beers and took a
long pull.
"I'm
Toby Barrett," said the bearded man. He picked up the other beer and
raised it to me. "I hear you're looking to get to Paswegas."
"How'd
you know that?"
"Everett
told me there was a lady looking to get over."
"Oh
yeah? Is he here? He fucking bailed on me when I called him this
afternoon."
"You
mean he wouldn't take you over in the dark?" Toby Barrett seemed amused.
"You're lucky he answered his phone."
He
pulled out the
"Cold
out tonight!" she said, sounding shocked: Maine, cold? "What can I
get you?"
I
ordered a shot of Jack Daniel's, a beer, and two rare hamburgers. I knocked
back the shot and ordered another, sipped my beer. When my burgers arrived, I
wolfed them down then ordered another beer. That ache you get after doing crank,
the sense that your brain has been walled up behind broken rubble—that began to
subside, replaced by the slow pulse of alcohol.
I
nursed my second beer. I was in no hurry to head back to the Lighthouse, though
the thought of hiding dirty Kleenex from Merrill Libby did have its appeal. A
nearly full moon crept above the black harbor. It wasn't yet seven o'clock. I
angled my chair so I could catch the light from the hurricane lantern on my
table and opened my copy of Deceptio Visus.
I
turned the pages carefully—it was probably the most valuable thing I
owned—until I reached Kamestos's brief introduction.
I
have called this collection of photographs Deceptio Visus, "deceiving
sight." But there is nothing here that is deceptive. Our gaze changes all
that it falls upon. Within these photographs, I hope, the discerning eye may
see the truth.
It
had been a long time since I'd read those words. Once they had seemed to
explain the world to me, the way I saw things; the sense I had that someone, or
something, watched me. But I had lost that way of seeing or feeling, if indeed
I'd ever possessed it; if it even existed.
Now
it all just seemed like shit. I looked around for my waitress to order another
beer.
Two
of the people at the bar were watching me. One was a solid-looking man with a
graying beard and close-cropped brown hair. A rat-tail braid dangled across his
shoulder. As he cocked his head, light glanced off a jeweled stud in one
earlobe. He wore a red flannel shirt, stained jeans, heavy workboots. He had a
cigarette tucked behind one ear and a yellow pencil behind the other.
Beside
him sat the man I'd run into at the Lighthouse. He stared at me, frowning
slightly. Then he stood, picked up his wineglass, and walked over.
"Can
I see that?" He pointed at my book.
Before
I could say anything, before I could even remember the stolen photograph inside
it, he picked up Deceptio Visus.
"No,"
I said, but he had already opened it. He glanced at the copyright page then
handed it back to me.
"My
copy's signed," he said.
I
grabbed the book and shoved it into my bag beneath the table. When I looked up,
the other guy had joined his friend.
"Did
he try to steal your book?" he said. "Because I can call the police
if you want me to." He plucked the cigarette from behind his ear, bent
over my hurricane glass, and lit it. His hands were crosshatched with scars,
and the tip of one thumb was missing. "Smoke?"
"No,"
I said.
As
if by magic, the waitress appeared and set down two more beers and a glass of
red wine.
You
know you're not supposed to do that in here, Toby," she scolded.
The
bearded man smiled sheepishly, pinched out his cigarette, and stuck it back
behind his ear. His friend stood, silent, beside him. The sleeve of his suede
jacket had ridden up so that his wrist was exposed, the scar grayish in the dim
light.
I
looked at him uneasily. I hated that he'd seen me before I saw him. The sense
I'd had earlier, that overpowering taint of fear and damage—it wasn't gone, but
it was definitely subdued. I thought of how he'd jumped away and cracked his
head on the door.
I'd
surprised him. Now he'd surprised me. I picked up one of the beers and took a
long pull.
"I'm
Toby Barrett," said the bearded man. He picked up the other beer and
raised it to me. "I hear you're looking to get to Paswegas."
"How'd
you know that?"
"Everett
told me there was a lady looking to get over."
"Oh
yeah? Is he here? He fucking bailed on me when I called him this
afternoon."
"You
mean he wouldn't take you over in the dark?" Toby Barrett seemed amused.
"You're lucky he answered his phone."
He
pulled out the
Similar Books
