THE 'MERRIWEATHER POST '
IN THE HARBOR
'There's a document for every category,' the harbormaster
said that, spitting back his coffee, 'and I have to be sure I
get each one.' On the open table was his bottle of Jack Daniels
and two bedraggled dock-men slumped but cogent. 'They've
been out for four days, running the harbor tugs straight off
the Narrows - no wonder they're dead fucking beat. I'll let
them sit here a while and then sleep it off on the cots in the
back. It ain't pretty, but that's how I run this place.' He kept
walking, me alongside, determined to get through his tasks.
-
The four-o'clock sun meant business, of sorts. It was
the time of afternoon when things undone tended to stay
that way, and things needing to be done had been done
already. Trouble was, I wasn't sure of the clock. Gulls
and terns and the rest of the harbor-bird contingent
kept squawking. A few watercraft idled their time and
spit back to the water - a thick, slow grumble, as of
time and the river. Me, I'd been too long gone and wasted
forever to make much sense of the place and the moment.
Being just here meant just being here.
-
'Roll up your sleeves, take this barrel over sides, and just
roll it along. The liquid inside's gonna' get a momentum,
and it will do most of its work for you.' Yes, yes, how I
liked that idea. Harbor-men, harbor-men, the very best.
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