own yard.
I spent most of that day circling around my living room until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I rode my bicycle over to the marina, dodging around Art’s dockmaster shack. I didn’t want to listen to a list of my shortcomings right now.
Nobody had stolen my boat. Nobody had cleaned the moss off the bottom, either. I sat and looked at it for a while. I could almost see the barnacles grow.
This was supposed to be what I wanted. This was why I had come here. To take a small boat out onto the flats and catch fish every day. Lately every day had turned into every now and then, but the desire to do it was still there. Wasn’t it?
I didn’t know. There was a hollow place where hope and desire had been carved out of me. Maybe it would grow back. Maybe it was dead, burned away by the August heat.
I wondered if Nancy was happy.
Chapter Eight
It was about an hour from sunset when I got back to my house. Nicky waited for me in my kitchen. “Mate,” he said pleasantly. “Have a cold one.” He generously handed me one of my own beers.
“Thanks,”
“So,” he said casually. “What’re your plans for the evening, mate?”
“I’m off duty tonight. I don’t feel up to saving the world.”
Nicky gave me a look of complete and permanent innocence. It was one of his best. “What’s that, eh? Did I say fetch the Batmobile? Put on the cape? Didn’t I say have a beer? Your name’s Billy, not Silly.”
He said that last like it solved everything, with the complete satisfaction of an Australian who has ended an argument with a rhyme. I don’t know why they feel that way about putting two rhyming words together, but they do. Rhymes had a magical power for Nicky and his countrymen. Even if it doesn’t mean anything, an Australian hit with a rhyme will back off, mutter, “Right, sorry,” and call for another round, on him. Maybe it comes from living in a place where all the towns have names like “Woolamaroo,” “Kalgoorlie,” and “Wollongong.” In a landscape littered with impossible sounds, putting two of them together is so unlikely it must call for an automatic celebration.
“You’ve gone all sour,” he told me, grabbing himself another beer.
“I know,” I said. “Art already told me.”
“It’s more than Nancy. Though that might have turned it loose. But it was already there.”
“Think so?”
“Too right. I think Nancy sensed it first, and that may have had something to do with why she pulled out.”
“Good to know.”
“The point is,” he said, after draining half the bottle, “you’ve lost your zest .” He wagged a finger at me. “Can’t do that, mate. Man’s got to have his zest.”
“I know. Grab for all the gusto you can get. I’ve seen the commercials.”
“You can laugh if you want,” he said, looking slightly hurt.
“Actually, I don’t think I can.”
“But the point is, you’re a bloody mess.”
“Are you going someplace with this?”
“Too right I am. Finish your beer.”
I finished my beer. Nicky finished three in the same time. It didn’t seem to affect him. I’ve never seen beer affect him in any way. Then he led me out the door and, to my surprise, over to Mallory Square.
Mallory Square is a small cross-section of life on earth. Nobody knows where it came from, or how it started, but it keeps growing and leaving a bigger mess. Originally the Square was a big parking lot next to an old concrete wharf. Now it’s a carnival, a street fair from one of those out-of-focus Italian films. There are jugglers, a sad magician, a high-wire act, trained animals, musicians, food vendors, and because it’s Key West, T-shirt salesmen. And the whole thing is supposed to be a celebration of sunset. But for me it was like going to the top of the Empire State Building if you live in Manhattan. It’s strictly for tourists.
“Bet you haven’t seen ’er for a while,” Nicky said as we walked through the parking lot and towards the crowd at the far
I spent most of that day circling around my living room until I couldn’t stand it any longer. I rode my bicycle over to the marina, dodging around Art’s dockmaster shack. I didn’t want to listen to a list of my shortcomings right now.
Nobody had stolen my boat. Nobody had cleaned the moss off the bottom, either. I sat and looked at it for a while. I could almost see the barnacles grow.
This was supposed to be what I wanted. This was why I had come here. To take a small boat out onto the flats and catch fish every day. Lately every day had turned into every now and then, but the desire to do it was still there. Wasn’t it?
I didn’t know. There was a hollow place where hope and desire had been carved out of me. Maybe it would grow back. Maybe it was dead, burned away by the August heat.
I wondered if Nancy was happy.
Chapter Eight
It was about an hour from sunset when I got back to my house. Nicky waited for me in my kitchen. “Mate,” he said pleasantly. “Have a cold one.” He generously handed me one of my own beers.
“Thanks,”
“So,” he said casually. “What’re your plans for the evening, mate?”
“I’m off duty tonight. I don’t feel up to saving the world.”
Nicky gave me a look of complete and permanent innocence. It was one of his best. “What’s that, eh? Did I say fetch the Batmobile? Put on the cape? Didn’t I say have a beer? Your name’s Billy, not Silly.”
He said that last like it solved everything, with the complete satisfaction of an Australian who has ended an argument with a rhyme. I don’t know why they feel that way about putting two rhyming words together, but they do. Rhymes had a magical power for Nicky and his countrymen. Even if it doesn’t mean anything, an Australian hit with a rhyme will back off, mutter, “Right, sorry,” and call for another round, on him. Maybe it comes from living in a place where all the towns have names like “Woolamaroo,” “Kalgoorlie,” and “Wollongong.” In a landscape littered with impossible sounds, putting two of them together is so unlikely it must call for an automatic celebration.
“You’ve gone all sour,” he told me, grabbing himself another beer.
“I know,” I said. “Art already told me.”
“It’s more than Nancy. Though that might have turned it loose. But it was already there.”
“Think so?”
“Too right. I think Nancy sensed it first, and that may have had something to do with why she pulled out.”
“Good to know.”
“The point is,” he said, after draining half the bottle, “you’ve lost your zest .” He wagged a finger at me. “Can’t do that, mate. Man’s got to have his zest.”
“I know. Grab for all the gusto you can get. I’ve seen the commercials.”
“You can laugh if you want,” he said, looking slightly hurt.
“Actually, I don’t think I can.”
“But the point is, you’re a bloody mess.”
“Are you going someplace with this?”
“Too right I am. Finish your beer.”
I finished my beer. Nicky finished three in the same time. It didn’t seem to affect him. I’ve never seen beer affect him in any way. Then he led me out the door and, to my surprise, over to Mallory Square.
Mallory Square is a small cross-section of life on earth. Nobody knows where it came from, or how it started, but it keeps growing and leaving a bigger mess. Originally the Square was a big parking lot next to an old concrete wharf. Now it’s a carnival, a street fair from one of those out-of-focus Italian films. There are jugglers, a sad magician, a high-wire act, trained animals, musicians, food vendors, and because it’s Key West, T-shirt salesmen. And the whole thing is supposed to be a celebration of sunset. But for me it was like going to the top of the Empire State Building if you live in Manhattan. It’s strictly for tourists.
“Bet you haven’t seen ’er for a while,” Nicky said as we walked through the parking lot and towards the crowd at the far
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