The Boardwalk

The truck slammed into the loading dock behind Thrasher's Fries with a bang.  "Here ya go fellas, Ocean City."   

Porko and Phil grinned.  They had really lucked out.  One ride from the DC Beltway all the way to OC was as good as it got.  All they had to do now was help the driver unload 40,000 pounds of potatoes.

Just over three hours later, Phil finally located the one hundred pound bag of Idaho's finest they had been looking for.  Of course it was the last one on the truck.  Phil muscled that last bag out to the pallet sitting on the dock.  Porko was busy trying to figure how many bags it took to total 40,000 pounds.

"Let's see.........10 bags is ...uh .... 1000 pounds..... 20 bags would....................."

"Jesus Porko, you are such a dumb ass.  400 bags, you bonehead.  And since you are lazy to boot, that would mean you carried maybe 50.  I carried the rest."

Porko sat on the last skid of potatoes and lit a cigarette.  He tipped his head back and blew a large plume into the air.  "Yeah, I'm a lazy bastard.  Good thing I brought you along."  He grinned at Phil.

The driver came through the dock doors with his pallet jack.  "Last one guys."  He jacked up the pallet and swung it around.  "Give me a few minutes and I'll be back with fries and some pop.  Thrasher's fries are the best there is you know.  You guys did a great job.  I'll make it back to B-more by dark."  He yanked hard on the pallet jack and disappeared through the doors.

~*~

"You know the kid working the peeling machine at Thrashers told me he and his buddy usually get $40 each to help unload.  We got $15.  What a rip off."

Sitting on the boardwalk at Ninth Street with his bare feet in the sand, Phil looked at Porko and shook his head.

"The man gave us a ride.  He paid us, fed us, and you complain?  You aren’t just lazy, you're an inconsiderate whiner to boot."

"But $15 each?  Slave wages.   The sooner I find a rich woman ........."

"Can it Porko.   You are so full of shit."

"Yeah well........at least I'm not still a cherry like you."

"Screwin your sister don't count."

Porko shoved Phil off the boardwalk onto the soft sand.

"You take that back.  It was her buddy I nailed.  You know that."

Phil was not smiling.   His virginity hung heavy on his mind.  Jeez, he was 17 and still seducing his hand.  Phil stopped thinking about it.  He was resigned to the notion of dying at age 80 un-laid and grumpy. 

"You fellows want some weed?"

Porko jumped.  "What the Hell man?  Don't sneak up on us like that."

Still on the sand and on his back, Phil strained to see over the edge of the boardwalk. A scruffy hippy wearing blue tinted granny glasses was standing behind Porko.  Phil hopped up on the boardwalk

"Uh, sure man, we’re always looking for weed.  How much and what kind?" .

"Hold it Phil.  We don't know this guy.  He could be a narc."

"Porko, shut up.  So what if he's a narc.  It's just weed."

The hippy grimaced.  “Man, if I was a narc, would I be selling weed?

Porko considered this.  “Uh, I guess not man.  Whatja got?”

“ Nickel bags of Commercial or Sinse.  Mersh is $10, $15 for the Sinse.”

Phil and Porko huddled.  Pockets were checked.  Mumbled words exchanged.

“Look fellas, I ain’t got all day.  You want some weed or not?”

Phil turned.  “ Two nickels of Sinse.”  He reached in his pocket.

“Jesus guy, not here.  Let’s take it over there.”  The hippy nodded towards a narrow alley separating a couple of souvenir shops.

~*~

“Where the Hell did you get $50?”  Porko studied Phil’s face.

“The truck driver gave it to me.”

“He gave you $50?  What the Hell man?  He gave me….”

Phil smiled.  “Yeah, he gave you $15.  Told me you weren’t worth even that much.  But who cares anyway?  We have weed, we’re baked and we can still eat tonight.  This trip to OC without the parents is working out just great.” 

Phil passed the joint to Porko and laid back on the sand.  A wave broke over his legs, creating a rush that slowly worked its way up his spine, ending in a full body shiver.  Who cared if school started in a couple of weeks?  Who cared what happened tomorrow?  Tonight he was free and stoned.  Life did not get any better than this.

Phil turned his head toward Porko. Porko was holding the joint and staring at it. He was not smoking it.

“Damn Porko, if you ain’t gonna smoke that doob, don’t Bogart it. Pass it back over to me asshole."

~*~_____________~*~

The Boardwalk – fictionalized memoir from 1969 - @ 800 words

A tale that is mostly true. Expect "Part 2" at some point. Those 6 days were full of seminal moments.

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Of course I can't forget some music to help set the tone - The Drifters',  "Under the Boardwalk"  will do just fine. Enjoy!

Compatible

Flash Fiction Friday - Cycle #60

Caleb Winters sat in his wheel chair on a dock that crudely interrupted the flat calm of Harpshead Pond.  His presence and the dock the only proof Mankind even knew of this peaceful place.  A loon cried off to his left and dragonflies swarmed in manic flight wolfing down mosquitoes foolish enough to be out and about.  Caleb spotted his bobber begin to bounce.

Caleb's fishing pole was stuck in the rod holder Harold had zip tied to his chair a week earlier.   Learning to fish with one hand had been difficult, but over the last seven days he came up with a system and yesterday he finally caught his limit. One more now and he would reach his limit today also.  He pulled the rod out and yanked hard setting the hook.  He immediately returned the pole in the holder to brace it.  Awkwardly he began to reel the line in.  

Whatever was on Caleb's line was bigger than any fish living in this pond.  His rod tip dipped hard with each crank of the reel.  Caleb stopped.  Could it be one of those lake trout Harold boasted about?  Called them togue or something like that.  He was often not sure what Harold was saying.  His thick Maine accent frequently a foreign language to Caleb’s New York City ears.

Caleb brought the rod back up with a sharp tug.  Nothing.  He moved the pole one way, then another.  Again nothing. 

"Damn!  Another snagged line. ....... Harold!......... HAROLD!..........My damn line's snagged again."

No response.  Caleb sat in his chair fuming.  What was the use of hired help if they were never there when he needed them.  Caleb sighed, tried to calm down using those relaxation techniques that flexible filly at the hospital tried to teach him.  No good.  He continued to rant.

Several minutes later a man stepped out of the camp nestled in the tall pines some 75 feet up from  the dock.  He wore a bloodstained white apron and was wiping his hands on a dishrag.  He looked down towards the dock.  The afternoon sun had dropped far enough he had to raise his hand to his forehead to block out its intensity.   He saw Caleb.

"Caleb!  Did you call?"

Caleb turned in his chair as far as he could.  Over his shoulder, "Yeah, where the Hell have you been?  My line's been snagged for an hour.  Get down here and fix it."  Harold rolled his eyes. Caleb's ranting followed him as he turned and walked back into the cottage to locate the tackle box. 

"What the Hell have you been doing Harold?  You got blood all over your apron."

Kneeling down next to Caleb rifling around the tackle box looking for another hook and leader Harold spoke. "Been cleaning all them damn fish you been catching.  You ever gonna eat any?  If not, I know a family that would appreciate the fresh fish."

"I don't eat seafood, you know that.  Just toss it out."

Harold found the leader and hook and stood up.

"Toss perfectly good filets?  No sir I won't do it.  I'll drop em off for  Millie and her brood on my way to town."   Harold bent over and reached for the last bobber in the top tray of the tackle box.  "You keep snagging something in the same spot.  Ferchrisakes, try casting somewhere else.  Think all I have to do is babysit you?"

Caleb opened his mouth and quickly closed it.  He opened it again.  "Just fix the line dammit, It's almost sundown.  One more fish and I hit my limit again.  Never thought I'd enjoy wrestling fish out of the water.  You know I hate seafood dontcha?"

"Yeah Caleb, you just told me.  You hate eatin fish, but you love catchin them.  I'll sleep in comfort tonight knowin that.  Thanks."

Caleb looked at Harold again.  His eyes became slits.  "What bug crawled up your ass?" 

Harold straightened up.  His back complained, his knees screamed.  He was getting too old for this nursing shit. 

"Well, I'll tell ya Caleb.  It was you.  You crawled up my ass.  You’ve done nothing but piss and moan since the day I rolled you out of the van.  First it was the mosquitoes.  They were eatin you alive.  Then you didn't like how the bug spray made your skin all greasy and shit.  We get past that and after the first night all you did was complain about how noisy it was here.  Trees rustling, loons crying, ....Ferchrisakes Caleb we just come up from Manhattan.  You think this place is noisy after living there that last 50 years....And while I'm at it, what the Hell were you thinkin when you bought this place? .......  Spent five million dollars and for what?  I know, I know, you wanted your own retreat, your quiet place to escape Humanity.  Well goddammit, then retreat and shut the fuck up."

"Caleb's eyes were no longer slits, they were bug eyed open.  Oddly speechless, he took a moment to gather himself.  Finally, "Well now, I guess you can pack up your things and we'll be done with each other.  No employee of mine shows me disrespect."

Harold did not say anything.  He reached out and grabbed the snagged line.  He cut it loose and attached the new bobber, leader and hook.   When he was done he threaded the hook through the fattest worm left in the small bowl next to Caleb's wheel chair.  He handed the rod to Caleb. 

 “Here you contrary ole fart, fixed.  Now fish and leave me the Hell alone."  Harold walked back up the dock and headed for the camp.

Caleb spun his chair around and watched Harold's back disappear into the cottage. He smiled.  The two of them had been together for 20 years now ever since the plane crash and the round the clock care Caleb needed from then on.  He loved that old Mainer, he really did.  But what he loved the most was pissin him off.
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The challenge was created at "Flash Fiction Friday"  - "Write a story using the weather, a town, something to eat, and a song.".

I did not hit the prompts very well, but I did finish it inside the word limit.  My first draft was over 1300 words.  I kept nibbling and condensing until I had 1000 words exactly.

Not hitting the prompts cleanly bothers me some, but finally punching out some fiction again, well, that more than makes up for it.

I'll be back.

Decisive Action

I have decided that this blog will become the repository, the depository, the toilet I place most fiction I come up with from now on.  In that this decision is not one of Life or Death, I reserve the right to undecide my decision if I at some point in the future decide to.  The decision is up to me, not you.  You can only decide to either read it or not read it. 

Not sure why I am doing this.  The reasons I came up with not 24 hours ago escape me now.  But the urge to do it still insists on me following through.  So to anyone out there who happens to be interested, "Lost in the BoZone - Dimension Two" is now back online and hopefully going to be getting fatter.

As there is nothing on here yet,  I promise nothing but more words.

We'll see..............................................