Serpentine, Volume 4, Number 2, Spring 2000

Hog

by William Roth

Hog and Billy hunched forward on their short stools sorting shrimp from the squirming pile of sea life in the middle of the afterdeck. The damp, early morning chill had settled again. It wrapped around Hog like a wet, woolen blanket, swelling his neck glands, seeping into his joints to make them ache. He wore his rain slicker. His chest and arms felt suffocated, clammy beneath the rubber, but he kept the slicker on. It was the only thing that held the dampness out at all.

       Hog wiped his nose on his wrist, raked another clump of shells, squid, coral, and sponge down off the pile with his wooden culling paddle. He spread it flat between his legs, began picking out the shrimp. At least they had done better this drag. Maybe one and a half baskets. They had brought up fish too, red snapper, sea bass, even one yellowtail. Yellowtail was worth seventy-five cents a pound. Hog had seen one slide out when he tripped the starboard net-bag.

       Hog straightened to ease the stiffness in his stooped back. He coughed, spit over the side. The he lit a cigarette and stared at the deck-lights of the Papa Loyd working a hundred yards now to their west. Popeye's crew had hauled back too, then left their deck-lights on to pick the pile, creating another small spotlit world in the midst of the great, black emptiness of the Gulf. Each boat was like a tiny stage to Hog when its deck-lights shown at night. Each had its own little play going on, surrounded by the same invisible audience of sea and sky.

       The gap of water between the two boats lay like black slate. As Hog watched, the taut cable running back from the port outrigger of the Molly Ray stuttered. That wasn't good. S.K., hog's captain, was dragging over rough ground or they had picked up something, most likely part of a rig somebody had lost. S.K. was dragging closer and closer to the blinker buoy marking the eastern edge of the gulf-bottom mud flat they were on. You caught yellowtail when you dragged near rocks. You also tore your nets. S.K. was too close to the buoy, much too close. Twenty feet more and he'd run over it.

       Hog turned on his stool and looked back over the stern. The sky hung thick and black and silent. He took a long drag on his cigarette. Maybe S.K. was getting groggy. It was hard to stay alert behind the wheel on nights like this, the unruffled Gulf flowing endlessly before you like an empty, unlit dream. Maybe S.K. would tell him to take the wheel when they finished culling this pile. Hog frowned. The creases in his weathered face deepened, making him look older than his twenty-eight years. They had worked most of yesterday rigging chain to make the nets cut deeper. They'd done poorly last night, five baskets of medium sized shrimp. Hog's share might be thirty-five, forty dollars if he was lucky. They had hauled back with dawn, run almost two hours to where they were now, then spent the morning working on nets. Hog was tired. He didn't want to take the wheel. He wanted to lie down when he finished culling, sleep until time came to haul back again.

       Billy glanced up, "You ain't even givin' me no contest!"

       Hog stooped again, began popping heads off the bright orange shrimp with his thumbs, watching their long antennae twitch, feeling the meaty tails contract convulsively, dig into the palms of his hands. Billy was ahead of him again. The boy's basket was already half full. His hands skimmed automatically over the deck, his paddle forgotten as he quickly raked another layer down off the pile. Billy had just turned eighteen. Billy tried too hard, talked too much. He was saving his money to buy another car. He had totaled his last one a month ago racing home for a visit. A friend's arm had been crushed in the accident.

       Billy had told Hog how it happened, how they rolled down an embankment, his buddy screaming. He had told Hog three times so far this trip, usually while they ate, his pimpled face craning eagerly forward on his long stalk of a neck, his mouth stuffed full of grits or cookies or fried eggs. Billy loved eggs. But they had to be fried in bacon grease. Everything had to be fried in grease. Eggs had to be fried, fish had to be fried, meat had to be fried until it was like rubber. S.K. too. Hog had read about how frying everything in grease messed up your insides. But they didn't care. "Gives it flavor," S.K. said. Billy always yapping, always eating. S.K. always moaning about how everything on his boat was rusting away, about how he was ashamed to anchor up alongside another boat in daytime because of the gray sea fungus crawling over his cabin walls. Like nobody ever scrubbed down the boat. Like nobody had respect.

       Hog spit over the side again. S.K. was picky as an old maid aunt. Treating his crew like they was some kind of white trash, wanting Hog to spend all his time scrubbing. S.K., who couldn't even count past ten unless he took his shoes off. Treating Hog like white trash.

       Billy stopped culling suddenly. He lifted his left hand, a startled look on his face. A small, dark gray, blunt-nosed catfish with smooth skin dangled from the palm.

       Hog shook his head impassively. "I told you about raking with your hands. That's what happens."

       Billy didn't answer. He stared fearfully at the fish, not moving. The dull, rubber mass revolved slowly on its inch-long barb like a gray weather vane in a softly shifting breeze.

       "Pull it out, boy."

       Billy just stared.

       "Pull the damn thing out before it breaks off!"

       Billy grimaced. He bit his lip, grabbed the fish, ripped it away. "Fuckin' gloves! Ain't no good for nothin'!" He flung the fish to the deck and pounded it furiously with his culling paddle.

       "Rub its slime into the wound."

       That won't do no good. Fuckin', goddamn cheap gloves!"

       Hog snorted. So now, sure as hell, he'd have to take the wheel. Billy couldn't do it. And they were staying out seven days. S.K. had said seven days. Three down, four more to go if the weather held. Hog smashed a blue crab with the heel of his boot as it backed warily away from the pile. The ab's claws bit into the rubber, hung on even after it had been crushed. Hog wanted to go back to the dock. He frowned. No. Going to the dock wasn't good enough this time. Hog wanted to go home, back to Shallotte. Damn right. He wanted to go home. When they got back to Key West he'd collect his pay, maybe collect Paula, head home for a rest. He'd sit on the front steps of his momma's house with a bottle of bourbon, watch the world pass by. He liked to sit on the front steps. He liked to sit there easy and just watch. He could do it for hours at a time, for days at a time. He'd seen a lot of strange things pass by while he sat sipping and watching. Once he had seen a Chinaman walk down the street looking at the old houses. Once he had seen a movie star strolling under the gray lace of Spanish moss. Hog figured that if he sat on his momma's front steps long enough, he'd most likely see all there was to see.

       Billy asked nervously, "How long till you feel somethin'?"

       Hog said quietly, "She comes on pretty quick. Should be startin' by now. Runs up your arm, through your body." Hog spit. "Rub fish slime into it."

       "That's how it was with you?"

       Hog nodded grimly, "That's how it was with me." Earlier in the season Hog had grabbed down on the poison-filled spines of a scorpion fish while cleaning a net. He had done it in the dull wash of early morning after the boat had anchored up behind an island. Hog had walked away, sat in the wheelhouse while S.K. and Billy finished the nets, ate breakfast, went to bed. Hog had sat watching the sun rise, watching the sea take color, harden to smooth, turquoise glass as the heat built. Hog had sat silently while pain deadened his body. After a while, he had begun to drift in his mind. He had begun watching himself. He was sitting somewhere else watching himself curiously, without emotion. The anchor line lay slack. No wind. No current. Just the god-awful pain killing his insides.

       Until out of the southwest he had seen a slow shark fin gliding toward him, a silent, black triangle fin cutting through the smooth endlessness of the glass-slick sea. It left no ripple. It did not waver in course or change speed. It moved directly toward the Molly Ray. Hog hated sharks. He hated them more than anything he could think of. They followed the boats feeding of the trash thrown over after culling the shrimp out of a pile. Hog had seen a man killed by sharks last year. It happened off St. Augustine. Hog's boat was running alongside a niggar boat. They had hauled back at the same time. A pulley-block tore out of the rigging of the other boat, split a striker's head open. The bloody man fell overboard before anyone could grab him. He clawed at the net, trying to climb it. His mates reached frantically for him. The blood drove the sharks crazy. They dragged the man down, hitting him, tearing at him. They were small, so it took a long time, the man screaming. Somebody on the boat finally found a rifle and started shooting down into the red water. But it had made no difference. Hog had watched from eighty feet away.

       The shark fin circled the Molly Ray twice, slowly. Hog said quietly, desperately, "Go away. Get out of here. Leave me alone," the echo of his fear ringing down though his pain. The fin circled once more, then angled off northeast across the Gulf at the same slow, ominous, uncompromising speed. Hog had wanted to hide in his bunk. But he couldn't move. The left side of his body felt like it had been poured full of hot lead. It held him down. He sat buried in it, burning in it. Hog had never, ever before, felt anything like that pain.

       "I don't feel nothin' yet." Billy complained. "Maybe it wasn't ripe or something."

       "Maybe not. Maybe you got lucky. Takes somebody as stupid as you to get that lucky."

       Suddenly, the boat engine died. Hog jumped to his feet, hurried to the starboard drum, yanked the power lever, threw the winch into gear, popped the drum lever. The steel cable began winding slowly in. It snaked up from the water to the end of the outrigger, then in along the outrigger to the drum. Smoke from Hog's cigarette whiffed back into his eyes. S.K. had fallen asleep, run onto the rocks, caught a snag. That stupid bastard. So now they had torn nets, probably a twisted rig. Hog shouted angrily, "Come on, Billy! Start haulin' back! Or we'll get fouled up!"

       Billy was trying to yank a canvas glove over his injured hand.

       Hog braked, "Come on, Billy, before she fouls!"

       Billy started the port winch. Hog grabbed his bar, slid the end into the deck-hole in front of the starboard winch and leaned heavily, working the wet, glistening cable back and forth across the drum so that it didn't pile up in one place. Both cables kept running in smoothly. At least they weren't fouled. The wooden doors that spread the mouth of the net breached first on his side, rolling the boat slightly with their weight. Hog eased back on the gear lever, ran the doors slowly up to the outrigger end. Then he slammed on the foot break and set the cog stop in the winch. He hurried toward the stern, grabbing the long wooden pole with the hook on its end. He leaned over the stern railing, fished for the lazy line that ran between the two net-bags. He caught it once, lost it, then caught it a second time and pulled it on-board.

       Billy grabbed the rope off the hook, unfastened it in the middle. Hog dragged the section attached to the starboard net bag back along the deck rail as fast as he could, locked it into a pulley, then wrapped it onto the small, revolving winch spool to wind the bag up.

       S.K. appeared, ducking under the outrigger. The squat, stoop-shouldered captain glanced around, then walked to the stern, stood staring out to sea until the bags were up. Hog tied off his bag-line, flipped it off the spool. Then he hooked a pulley rope around the top of the bag and winched it up into the rigging. Billy's bag was already up, swaying slightly. Billy smiled triumphantly as he tripped his bag first, yanking out the slipknot in the cord that held the bottom shut.

       Though there weren't many of them, the shrimp looked bigger, maybe 21-25s. And there were several red snapper. Billy yelled, "What's happening? Why'd we haul back?"

       S.K. said, "We're running."

       "Now?"

       S.K. hurried forward. "Get the deck cleaned off."

       "Hell of a time to run," Billy whined. "Shrimp are gettin' bigger. Why don't he wait till morning? We won't be able to set out again."

       Hog watched the Papa Loyd. "Popeye's hauling back too. Something happened. Maybe weather."

       Billy said, "I don't feel nothin'. Wind ain't changed none."

       The whining roar of the engine ripped up through the exhaust stack as they began picking the pile again. The Molly Ray swung in a wide arc, headed southeast, back toward Key West. Hog shielded his eyes from the deck lights with his hand, peered up at the sky. The wind hadn't shifted, hadn't picked up. No clouds blocked the stars. The marine report at suppertime had predicted clear weather for two more days, winds out of the west.

       Hog shook his head in disgust. "We don't even have enough in the hole to pay for all the groceries you've been stuffing down your scrawny neck. I'm quittin'. This is my last trip."

       Billy began shoveling sea debris over the side. "You quit last trip, Hog. You quit every trip. Here's another sea horse."

       "Give it to me. Be careful when you pick it up." Hog took the delicate creature carefully from Billy, slid it into the can of seawater he kept beside his stool. He began stirring the water gently with his finger to give the seahorse oxygen, trying to get it moving again.

       "How's it doin'?" Billy leaned over his shoulder.

       "I don't think it's dead. But there ain't much life left."

       Hog kept stirring. After several minutes the seahorse seemed to revive some. Its tiny fins began to ripple in the current he was creating with his stirring.

       "Gees, Hog, I think we actually saved one."

       "Looks that way. Looks like we might actually have saved one." Hog stood up and walked toward the side. "Time to go home now, little friend. Sorry for the inconvenience. Good luck to you." Hog leaned as far over the rail as he could with Billy hanging onto his belt and poured the contents of the can back into the sea.

       Then he went back to picking the pile. He sat silently for a while, then shook his head. "I don't need this grief. I'm goin' home. Ain't nothin' out here. Too many boats. No shrimp left. All I do in this place is drink up my pay." Hog slumped down on his stool frustrated. "Well, I'll tell you what. If all I'm going to do is drink up my pay, I'd rather be doin' it sitting on my momma's front porch in Challotte. That's a fact." He shook his head harder agreeing with himself. "I surely would."

       Billy smiled at Hog, "You ain't goin' to quit, and you know it."

       Hog stripped off his rubber gloves. His hands looked dead, pale and wrinkled from being trapped in their own sweat. He bent his fingers. His arthritis was getting worse. He could close his pointing finger on his right hand only halfway.

       Billy goaded him. "You ain't going home. You know you ain't. You'll get drunk again, forget. Sheeiiiit. That's all you ever talk about, goin' back home. What you got there besides your momma anyway, a woman?"

       "That's right, Billy. That's what I got at home, a woman."

       "She better than that bar gal you bin messin' with? What's her name, Paula? She sure is one fine lookin' lady."

       Hog didn't answer.

       Billy persisted, "Got a girl back home for me?"

       Hog said slowly, "Nothin' you could handle, I expect."

       Billy guffawed. His long, brown hair was tied into a tight pony-tail in the rear. He was dressed neatly. Even out here, where everybody wore old clothes because of the beating they took, Billy wore nice clothes and changed them daily. Tonight he had on a short-sleeved, blue polo shirt and clean jeans.

       Billy's clothes filled two of the four drawers and took up half the space on the empty bunk. Last trip Hog had flung a pair of new khaki pants he found lying on his own bunk overboard.

       The boy stood up and swaggered, "Sheeiiit. Now ain't that some shit. Nothin' I could handle. Them little girls would run hide when I dropped my britches. I'm hung near as good as my bubba. All sorts of women chasin' him. He moved right on through them too. That he did. Till he got religion." Billy popped his chewing gum. "All of a sudden last summer he gets religion, see. Some gal twists his head all around. So now he's Jesus Christ himself. Gonna marry her, raise a respectable family. Layin' that shit on me too. He got his, but he don't want me getting' mine. Says it wrong, sinful. He won't even let nobody workin' his boat curse no more. Man's supposed to say, 'Praise the Lord!' when he gits hot. Sheeiiit. 'Praise the Lord.' Can you imagine?"

       Hog pulled back the hatch cover, climbed down the ladder into the hole. He slid the slats fronting the ice bin up and off. Billy handed down the nearly two baskets of shrimp. "When I had my wreck and Larry got hisself hurt, my brother tried to make me pray for forgiveness. Sheeiiit. Pray for forgiveness. Wrecked two cars hisself couple of years ago. But he don't remember that none. Got rid of his sports car. Said it was Satan's invention, the power it had over women. Wouldn't give it to me. Wouldn't even sell it to me. I offered him plenty. Said he was doin' me a favor. Sheeiiit. Doin' me a favor. I'll clean them fish."

       Hog braced his feet on the slippery floor of the hole, hacked angrily with a pick at the solid crust coating the shredded ice in the chest. Billy was a idiot, a loud-mouthed idiot. Hog couldn't take any more. This was his last trip on the Molly Ray. For sure his last trip. He'd either head on home or find another boat. Hog inspected three of the shrimp already iced in the bin. No black spots showing yet through the joints of the outer casing. No rot yet. That was good. He tossed a layer of shrimp into the bin, sprinkled the powdered preservative over it, then covered it with a layer of crushed ice. Then another layer of shrimp.

       By the time he closed the bin back up and climbed to the deck, the boat was stopped again. S.K. and Billy had brought the nets on board and then the doors. They finished lashing the starboard door down while Hog stood with his hands up under his armpits warming his fingers.

       S.K. hurried back to the wheel-house, and they took off again, full throttle. Billy's voice rattled with excitement. "S.K. said somethin' about Captain Wally goin' overboard."

       Hog grunted, "I doubt that. On a night like this? Wally's been fishin' all his life. He probably found some shrimp. He and S.K.'s close." Hog headed toward the bow, ducking carefully under the steel outrigger. He took off his boots, his slicker top, felt the chill of damp night air grip his sweaty stomach and back. He stepped barefoot into the dark galley. S.K.'s broad, stooped back filled the door connecting the galley to the wheelhouse. Hog flamed the burner under the coffeepot, slumped down tired at the table.

       S.K. grunted, "You hose down the deck?"

       "The boy will do it."

       Hog listened to the steady drone of voices coming over the marine radio in the wheelhouse. He heard something about Captain Wally, but couldn't make it out. Hog tried to think about it, but was too tired. He had held the wheel for a good part of last night. When they anchored up he had sewed up two holes in a net, then helped attach the chain. Hog buried his head in the V of his arm on the table. He wished he had a bottle. He'd smuggled one on board last trip, hidden it in the net locker. Three days out it had disappeared. Hog closed his eyes, listened to the voices ...

       Fifty minutes later when S.K. throttled back Hog started nervously. The galley was still dark. A puddle of drool lay on the table beneath his mouth. Hog grunted, wiped his mouth, then wiped up the drool with his sleeve. He moved quickly out onto the deck to clear his head. A fresh breeze whipped hair down into his eyes. The black horizon ahead glowed with white specks dancing on the swells. Hog climbed onto the railing, looked over the top of the cabin. The specks surrounded him. Some had drawn close enough for hog to tell whose boats they were. Most still hung in the distance like warm, alive stars.

       Hog heard a splash, looked down. Directly below him porpoises plowed green-edged algae glow paths through the water. They crossed back and forth under the bow of the Molly Ray, leaping playfully, then knifing back into the sea. One night he and Billy had dropped underwater flares, watched the cloud of greenish light fill with darting black shapes, swarming shadow phantoms, as the porpoise came to investigate.

       Hog spit. Life out here worried at him, rotted him. But at least it was real, absolutely real. On land, surrounded by people, it wasn't always real. It made him nervous. Mostly he just sat and watched on land. But out here there was no doubt, no doubt at all. Out here things lay perfectly honest. And, occasionally, things even got good. Hog would never forget the time three years ago, off St. Augustine, when they had hit it big. A storm had started blowing in. The other boats ran back to the docks. S.K. had decided to move down the coast maybe a half mile and set out one more time close in to shore.

       After twenty minutes of fishing the nets began to drag heavy. Hog had thought it was probably a load of shells. They hauled back. When the nets came up they were absolutely full, bulging. And Hog had seen nothing but orange. Both bags were full of squirming, snapping, orange shrimp of good size. He couldn't believe it. The bags were so heavy that S.K. was afraid to winch them up over the rail for fear of snapping the line, or tearing out a block.

       The Molly Ray began to roll, the sea rising. There it hung, maybe $500 for hog, five feet from safety. They quickly rigged another block, threw another line around the port bag, ran the line through the block and to the starboard winch spool. Slowly, very slowly they began taking in the lines together, hoisting the bag up, inching it up, until, finally, with the right roll of the ship, they slid it over the railing to settle heavily on the deck. Then the starboard bag. They didn't bother emptying them, but had run immediately back up the channel to the docks where they shoveled the shrimp into baskets and carried them directly into the fish house.

       Word got around quickly. Several boats tried to beat their way back out to sea, but had to quit. Two days the storm lasted. After that the boats crowded out, running frantically up and down the coast, captains glued to their radios, trying to figure out who was catching what and where. If Popeye didn't say anything for a long time, he was into something. If Glen said "No." it meant "Yes." Glen wasn't very smart. With Roy G. you couldn't tell.

       It was ten or twelve baskets of good-sized shrimp every time the Molly Ray hauled back. Boats hurried in from other docks. Strikers didn't even bother heading the shrimp to make a few extra cents, or icing them in the hole. They just mixed crushed ice into the pile on the deck to save time. Life had been sweet. Hog had made close to $1,500 for three days of work before the shrimp disappeared again. He had given most of the money to his momma so she could replace the roof on her house. Billy had spent his share on the car he just wrecked.

       The chopping sound of a helicopter in flight cracked through the soft silence of Hog's reveries. A parachute flare exploded, its yellow puff lighting the night, falling slowly. Hog followed its descent, spotted the blinker buoy off to the left of where the flare dropped. He yanked open the humidity swollen wheelhouse door. "What's going on?"

       "Wally went over. Benson searched the boat three times and couldn't find him."

       "What's that buoy mean?"

       S.K. throttled the engine back down to idle. "It's the one Benson threw over when he realized Wally was gone."

       "Did Benson run back?"

       "They was runnin' northeast, so the other buoy should lie about twenty minutes southwest." The captain paused, then asked gruffly, "You sleep good?"

       Hog didn't answer but closed the door and went up to the bow. Ahead of them boats were already searching. The wheel house windows of the Molly Ray were open. Hog listened carefully to the captains talking back and forth over the marine radio.

       A worried voice said. "Who's that up there? Tell him to slow the hell down. Over."

       "Looks like Skipper. Slow down, Skipper."

       Popeye broke in, "You ain't goin' to help Wally none by runnin' him over, son. Why don't you come back here, work with us. Over."

       Another voice broke in, "What's that coast guard helicopter doin'? They not even close. Over."

       "Sure as hell saved my ass last year. Over."

       "That you, Danny? Over."

       "Yeah."

       "That was off Carolina, wasn't it? Over."

       "Yeah."

       "You here yet, Ronnie? Over."

       "Southeast of you. I'll spin my light. Over."

       Hog looked to the southeast. A searchlight beam swung across the Molly Ray from one of the boats running in.

       "I see you. Skipper and Wally's family, ain't they? Over."

       "Somethin' like that. Over."

       "This is Skipper. Wally's my momma's brother. Over."

       "Well, don't go trying to cover the whole Gulf yourself, boy. I know how you feel. Wally's kin to me too. But we'll find him faster if we work together. Over."

       "Ain't gonna find him till it's light anyway. Over."

       "This is station 1123 calling Popeye. Come in, Popeye. Over." It was a female voice. Nobody answered. "This is station 1123 calling the Papa Loyd. Come in Papa Loyd. Over."

       "This is Popeye. What do you want, Fran? Over."

       "Should I contact Wally's wife. Don't you think she should know he's missing? Over."

       "No, Fran. Don't say nothing till we find him. Over."

       "But she'll worry. Over."

       "Not if nobody don't tell her, Fran. You just leave things be and go back to sleep. Over."

       Billy stood beside Hog now, staring out over the waters on the port side. He snorted. "She's always on that damn radio. I never seen nobody so nosey."

       S.K. put the boat into gear, started slowly forward. The porpoise had disappeared. S.K. swung the spotlight back and forth, back and forth. The spackle of boat-lights on either side of them bobbed gracefully against the darkness. It was hard for Hog to believe somebody was really out there, especially somebody he knew. The air was too calm, the soft glow crowding in too unhurried. It was like nighttime at home, fireflies bobbing around him as he walked slowly down the dirt road toward the beach. It was too peaceful for somebody to be out there, maybe dying a hard death.

       A long smudge of gray grew above the eastern rim of the sea. The stars still shone, but the hard darkness began to fade gray. Over the radio Hog heard Popeye call, "Let's line up between the buoys, run down current together. That's the fastest way to find him. Over."

       "What's he wearin'? Over."

       "A red flannel shirt. He had his slicker on, but I imagine he got rid of that right quick. Over."

       "Where you at, Benson? Over."

       "Near the southwest buoy. We'll run this end of the line, Popeye. You run the other. If we don't find him in twenty minutes, we'll double back. He couldn't have drifted any further than that. Over."

       The light grew rapidly, now, but stayed gray. The sky filled with racing clouds. The gray sea surface lay pocked with shadows dark as coal chips. S.K. pulled the Molly Ray into line. "Billy, get up the mast. Hog, you take the wheel. My eyes are startin' to ache."

       Popeye's voice called, "Everybody's in line. Let's move. He'll probably be gettin' pretty cold by now. He'll wave his arms if he can. Over."

       Hog eased the throttle back, tried to stay even with the Papa Loyd. They ran slowly for twenty minutes almost due southeast. The radio hung silent. Hog stared ahead as the darkness continued to fade. Popeye's voice came in again. "All right. The current wouldn'a carried him no further out. Let's swing about, try her again."

       "Station 2231 callin' Popeye. Over."

       The radio stayed silent.

       "Station 2231 callin' the Papa Loyd. Come in, Popeye. Over."

       "Let's try her slower this time. Over."

       "Station 2231 callin' Popeye. Do you receive me? Over."

       S.K. grunted. "Some night I'm gonna sneak into her house, bust that radio to bits."

       Hog lit a cigarette. "You think Captain Wally's still alive?"

       "He's probably getting' cold, but the water's warm enough."

       "What about sharks?"

       "Won't bother him unless he's bleedin', or panics bad. He's been at sea long enough that he'll know better'n to panic."

       The boats lined up again, headed back northwest. The engine's steady throb messaged Hog's feet through the deck. The sea was rising. Swells lapped against the hull, breaking against it with dull, hollow thuds.

       S.K. spoke again quietly. "I went over once, off Charleston. I was on the deck alone, got knocked over by a net. I was still a kid, younger 'en Billy. Couldn't swim none. Lucky there was a buoy close by. I got to it, hung on till next mornin' a niggar boat comin' in picked me up." He paused, "Never felt nothin' like that in my whole life, watchin' my boat pull away, knowing how far I was from land. And night comin' on. Other boats run by. But she was already too dark. One almost hit the buoy. I yelled, but they couldn't hear above the engines. I seen men working on the decks, cleaning and sewing nets. They coulda reached me easy with a line. Then it got real quiet and lonely. Just me and the sea. I hung on to that buoy all night."

       "Nobody looked for you?"

       "Captain and senior striker was drunk. The deck had already been cleared. Tied up, left the boat. I guess they thought I was in the hole or somethin'." S.K. grunted again. "That's why I don't allow no liquor on my boat."

       Popeye called over the radio. "Okay, let's swing back again, go further out this time."

       S.K. was one of the few people Hog respected. He was the kind of person who would have to be taken apart piece by piece until there was nothin' left before he gave up. S.K. was also the strongest man Hog knew. He could lift a net door by himself and carry it around. They had arm-wrestled once. S.K. had let Hog try, grinning his toothless, round-faced grin. Then very easily he had slammed Hog's arm down on the table with such a jerk that it hurt for a days. There was a story in the fleet that he had killed a pool hustler a few years back. S.K had clubbed the man too death with the butt end of his cue, crushed his skull with one blow. Then, when he realized the man was dead, he had poured whiskey over him, carried him upstairs to the balcony of the bar, dropped him headfirst over the rail. Not many people had been there. Nobody had said anything. Hog didn't know if the story was true. He hadn't asked S.K.

       Halfway through the run Hog heard a quiet, "We found him."

       Hog held the wheel steady, reached for another cigarette. The pack was empty. He crumbled it, threw it through the door over the rail.

       "This is station 2231 callin' Popeye. Come in, Popeye. Did I hear someone say they found Captain Wally? His wife's here with me. Over."

       Silence.

       Hog let the Molly Ray run toward the cloud-stacked horizon.

       Finally, Popeye asked, "Elroy, how's he doin'? Is he all right? Over."

       "Not so good. He was floatin' face down. Over."

       Hog flicked the marine radio off. S.K. had come up behind him from the cabin. "Boat probably run over him. Get Billy."

       "You got any extra cigarettes?"

       "We goin' in. Bad luck to stay out after somethin' like this."

       As Hog stepped out onto the deck S.K. said, "You left the coffee pot sittin' on the flame last night when you took your nap. Don't do that again. I worked too hard to get this boat to have her burn. I'll beach you if you do that again."

* * *

       By four that afternoon Hog was seated in a Duval Street bar. After docking and off-loading he had tossed for two hours in his bunk, trying to sleep, wet with sweat, before giving up. He had washed himself and shaved. Then he had sat on the railing of the Molly Ray for a while, baking in the hot sun, staring down into the sunlit turquoise water, watching the tarpon, some five foot long, swim beneath the boats. Nobody had ever caught one, no matter what they used for bait.

       Eventually, Hog had walked into town. The large fan hanging from the ceiling of the bar revolved slowly, moving the air, bouncing it off thick, white adobe walls to make the room comfortable. Paula leaned on her elbows in front of him. One side of her mouth worked better than the other, so that it twisted slightly upward as she spoke. "He was pretty old, wasn't he? At least he didn't die young. That's something."

       Hog shook his head. "She just don't seem right. Too much like a game. Your number comes up and, bing, that's it. Nothin' you can do." Paula stared fretfully at him. Hog drank the shot of bourbon she had given him for free. "It's disrespectful. That's what bothers me. No respect for a man, for what a man might think, for what he might want out of life." Hog stared down at his empty glass.

       "Maybe you ought to take a rest, Hog. You seem pretty worn down." Hog looked at her. The clear blue eyes had circles under them. She was working two jobs, this one at the bar until two in the morning and another in a gift shop during the day. The blonde dyed hair that fell over her shoulders was beginning to show brown at the roots. Sometimes Hog stayed with her rather than on the boat when they were at dock. Hog liked Paula. She looked after him, but never bothered him when he wanted to be alone. Hog liked Paula about as much as he could like anyone.

       Billy leapt nimbly onto the barstool next to his. The boy ran a red comb through his hair, which now hung loose down to his shoulders, then shoved it into his back pants pocket. "We didn't make nothin' this trip. None of the boats did. I ain't never gonna to get the money together for another car."

       "Nothin left, Billy. We fished the nursery grounds out. Now we payin'."

       Billy shifted his wad of gum. "Yeah, my brother. He's one of the boats sneakin' into the nursery. Don't find nothin' sinful about that. 'Nature was made to serve us,' he says. 'Man's got to make a livin,' he says. 'God put us on earth to work, to glorify his name through work,' he says. I hope the government inspectors catch him, throw his ass in jail. I want to see him pray his way out of jail. I wanta see that."

       "They plannin' to do anything for Captain Wally?"

       Billy smiled his excited smile at Paula, pointed to Hog's empty shot glass. When she moved away he asked, "You bin pokin' her, ain't you?" He shook his head, clicked his tongue. "Sure would like to get me something like that. I surely would."

       When Hog didn't reply he said, "Like what for Captain Wally?"

       "Like takin' up a collection for his widow."

       "They always say they goin' to. But I never seen it happen, 'cept maybe amongst family. Wouldn't do much good no how. Nobody's got any money. They think maybe he had a heart attack. He had a weird look on his face when they pulled him out, like he had been in a lot of pain."

       "Grease. That's how we're all goin' to go. It's the grease."

       Billy turned again to stare at Paula. "Wally's wife's a good lookin' woman too. Large-boned. A little old by now, but still fine. She won't have no trouble findin' somebody new. Might even pay her a visit myself sometime soon." Billy winked, "To offer my sympathies."

       Hog drank the shot Billy had bought him, then said quietly, "You know, Billy, sometimes you get pretty damn common. I suggest that you start cleanin' your mouth up, or someday somebody who don't understand how simple-minded you are is gonna get angry and bend a crowbar over your head."

       "Whoa there! Whoa there, ol' buddy!" the boy swayed nervously back on his stool, shook Hog's shoulder roughly. "Sheeeiit, man. What's wrong with you? I don't mean no harm. I was only kiddin'. You ought to know by now when I'm kiddin'."

       Paula came back, leaned over the bar. She said quietly, "I'm not working tonight, Hog. You want to come over to my place for supper?"

       "I'll be pretty drunk by then."

       "That doesn't matter."

       "Paula! Come here!" Mickey, the owner, stood by the door. His sagging face looked stern. He had thick dark eyebrows and hairs growing out of his ears. Thin lines of broken blood vessels made a ragged pattern on his red cheeks. He was overweight. His gut hung slightly out over his belt. He had on a neat short-sleeved shirt covered with orange orchids; neatly pressed, spotless white slacks; and the panama hat that he always wore. His arms were pasty white under his shirt-sleeves, like freshly kneaded dough, when everyone else's were brown.

       Hog had never seen Mickey out on the street in the sun. The owner slept most of the day, spent most of the night sitting at the bar close to the cash register. The other thing he always carried with him was his cane, a twisted piece of hickory with knots in it. The top was carved into a hand holding a bird that was dyed red. Hog had never seen Mickey without his cane. He lived in a small apartment above the bar. Paula had told Hog that a Spanish maid shopped and cooked for him, kept his apartment clean. Paula had also told Hog that two weeks earlier, when the Spanish maid was sick, Mickey had asked her to come up and cook supper for him. Afterwards, he had tried to convince her to stay.

       Mickey moved a step to the left to lean heavily on the bar. "Paula! Come here, I said!"

       Paula grimaced and hurried away, reaching unconsciously up to pull the neck of her blouse together.

       Hog stood abruptly. "I'm movin' on."

       "S.K.s down the street. You want to go there? He told me a funny story. Said when he was young, he got stuck by a sea cat, just like me last night. Said he jumped up to pull her out, stepped on another one, drove the spine clear through his boot into his foot. Said he sat down fast to pull the one out of his foot, missed the stool, landed on another one. Said the captain found him passed out on the hatch cover with three cats stickin' into him. Three."

       Hog frowned, "S.K.'s a mean, greedy son-of-a-bitch who don't care nothin' about nobody but himself."

       Billy shook his head reproachfully, "He ain't that bad, Hog. He's kin. I bin around him most of my life. My bubba says there's a lot worse. He ain't never tried to cheat us none that I know of. He gets all he can, but he don't never cheat. And he treats us pretty good, lets us sleep on the boat when we're in. Just don't never get him mad, that's all. I seen him mad a couple of times back home. It's nothin' you want to be part of. I heard that he killed a pool hustler a couple a years back, had to pay off somebody in the police department to get out of it."

       "I heard that too."

       "So you gonna fix me up with Paula? I'll go eat supper with her if you don't want to."

       "I'm not your pimp, Billy. Do your own fixin'." Hog got up, walked toward the door.

       Billy slid quickly off his stool. "Want to go watch sunset down at the pier? Maybe we can meet us some hippie girls."

       Mickey's voice rose from across the bar. "This is the last damn time I'm going to tell you about giving away free drinks! Nobody drinks free in here except me!" Hog turned.

       "I'll pay for it, Mickey! I was gonna pay for it out of my tip money!"

       "The hell you were!"

       Paula backed away, hit a barstool, lost her balance, and fell down.

       Hog muttered. "Mickey shouldn't ought to do somethin' like that."

       Billy steered him toward the door. "Come on, Hog. She'll be all right. Ain't none of our concern."

       Hog wrenched away angrily. "He shouldn't do that. You don't yell at a woman like that in front of people."

       "Ain't none of our business, Hog. Let's get out of here."

       Hog hurried to Paula, who was still on the floor. He pulled her to her feet, then stood between her and Mickey. The owner hadn't moved. He glared at Hog. "You oughten to do somethin' like that, Mickey."

       The owner's expression turned startled, "What did you say?"

       "I said you shouldn't treat Paula like that."

       "You smart-ass shrimper son-of-a-bitch!" Hog stuck both arms out straight, backed away. Mickey swung the heavy end of the cane at him. It smashed down into his left shoulder. Hog fell to his knees, stunned.

       "Mickey, stop it!" Jake, the red-headed bouncer wrapped his arms around the owner from behind and dragged him backward. "Get out of here!" the bouncer yelled. "Get out!"

       Billy yanked Hog to his feet, half carried him through the door. "Come on, man! The cops'll lock you up, not him!" Hog's shoulder felt numb as Billy pulled him down the street. "Christ! He could'a killed you! If that cane had caught you in the head, you'd be dead, sure as hell!"

       Hog mumbled, "He shouldna done that. He had no cause. Mickey shouldna gone after me like that." He raised his arm carefully, grimacing as pain shot through.

       "He almost killed ya!"

       "Shut up, Billy. You don't kill somebody with a cane."

       "S.K. done it with a pool cue!" Billy walked silently for a while, popping his gum intensely. Finally he said in a low, barely controlled voice. "You didn't do right in there, Hog. You can't go backin' away from somethin' like that. You can't let a man push you like that and not stand up to him."

       Hog spun angrily. "How the hell was I supposed to know he'd go crazy!?"

       Bill continued in the low voice, not looking at Hog, staring self-consciously straight ahead, "There's times when you got to fight, Hog. You can't back off. My brother said you got to fight, even when you know you're gonna get whipped."

       Hog began to shake. "He was trying to hurt me, you dumb shit! He was out of his mind!"

       Billy's voice stayed low, the intensity steady, his conviction not wavering. "You still got to fight, Hog. Even if he kills you. You got to fight."

       Hog snarled viciously, "That's easy for you to say. Real easy when it's not your shoulder bein' crushed."

       Billy said stubbornly, "I woulda fought, like my brother. I woulda fought."

       Hog spit disgustedly, "Yeah, sure thing. You woulda fought, just like your brother. You think your brother would still fight now, Billy, now that he's got religion? How's that work, Billy? How do you get religion and still fight?"

       Billy didn't answer.

       Hog was trembling all over by the time they reached the end of Duval Street and moved through the Spanish garden. A small crowd had gathered on the cement pier to watch the sun set. Billy hurried away. Hog reached for a cigarette. His hand shook so badly that he dropped the pack. When he leaned over to pick it up, he felt dizzy. He held onto a piling till the dizziness went away. Three inches to the right and he would have been hurt, maybe badly. The trembling grew worse. Hog's shoulder began throbbing. Maybe something was broken.

       Billy was fifty feet up the pier now. The boy swayed cockily as he talked to two barefoot girls. He ran the comb through his hair, then shoved his hands into his back pockets. He leaned backward, his elbows angled jauntily outward. Hog frowned bitterly. Billy was a simple-minded idiot. Sure he would have fought, sure he would have. He would have fought; he would have been beaten up by Mickey; then he would have been thrown out by Jake. That made a lot of sense.

       Hog took a long, trembling breath, trying to regain control of his body. The sun hit the horizon, spread like a giant, ruptured egg yolk. The deepening blue sky above flowed with streaks of orange. The white clouds were edged with pink. Hog's insides hardened slowly into an ugly knot. His neck was stiffening above the throbbing shoulder. He just wanted to be left alone. That's all. Why couldn't people leave him alone? He just wanted them to keep out of his way. He didn't want to mess with them.

       Hog stayed when the sunset finally faded and everyone else wandered back up Duval Street to the bars and restaurants. Layers of gray folded down from the gathering night to harden the sea. He sat on the curb at the edge of the pier, the strong, dark current sweeping out toward the sea beneath his dangling feet.

       Hog dropped his cigarette, watched the white speck disappear rapidly. The shark fin was out there somewhere in the black void, circling, waiting. He could sense it swimming slowly around and around somewhere out there. Hog grunted softly. He could just drop down into the channel, float out to meet the shark if he wanted. The thought brought a strange feeling of relief.

       Long after the pier lights blinked on, Hog heard someone come up behind him. "Hog, what you doin' still out here? I thought maybe you'd fallen in." It was Billy.

       "My shoulder hurts bad."

       "Want to go to the hospital?"

       "No."

       "Want to get somethin' to eat?"

       "No."

       "Want to go back to the boat?"

       "What time is it?"

       Billy pulled Hog to his feet. "Near nine-thirty. Can you walk?"

       "I can walk just fine."

       "S.K. says we're goin' back out tomorrow if the weather holds. He says he'll get another man if you can't work."

       "I'll make it. You tell that bastard I'll make it okay. I'll be ready."

       When they reached the street, Billy flagged a cab. "You could walk back easy, but maybe you should take a cab tonight." He shoveled Hog into the back seat, then leaned in through the back window, "S.K. said you had no right messin' in that affair. He said a man's gotta worry 'bout his self and that's all. He said it's hard enough just keepin' yourself goin. He said he guessed you'd about learned that today. He said that if anyone had messed with him the way Mickey messed with you, he'd a beaten him bloody."

       Hog closed his eyes wearily. "S.K. sure has started to do a lot of talkin' for a man who never says much of anything, except to tell you what you done wrong. Go away, Billy. Just go away and leave me alone, will you?"

       Billy walked away.

       Hog opened his eyes again only when the driver said, "Standard Oil Dock. Which boat you on?"

       Hog didn't answer. He was still shaking. After paying, he climbed out, stood with his fists clenched, trying to steady himself. Hog stared down the dock. The boats tied up alongside it rocked gently stern to bow. The breeze blew in from the southeast now. Good weather. Yellow cabin lights flowed softly. Masts and raised outriggers rode up and down, up and down, poking at the stars. Someone had a bilge-pump running, the steady pull of the engine rhyming with the night, with the soft, lap, lap of swells against the piling, with the hard, clear creak of dock-lines pulling tight, straining until the boats swung back inward toward the dock. Nets hung high above the stern railings of the boats, silhouetted against the soft glow of the pier lights. The red running beacon at the top of the Molly Ray's mast cut a slow, red arc across the black sky, then moved slowly back. Decks neat, baskets piled, ropes coiled.

       Hog looked down at his hands to see if they were still shaking. Hard calluses covered them, weathered and roughened by salt, by fish acid and ropes. He could grind a cigarette out on those calluses. He did it in the bar sometimes to impress people. Hog straightened his fingers, feeling the arthritis in the joints. Then he turned and began walking slowly back toward Duval Street.

       When Hog entered the bar, Billy spotted him. The boy's head tilted to one side, the excitement growing in his face. Hog ignored him and walked toward where Mickey sat staring down at his cane as it lay on top of the bar. Jake sat beside him. Hog slid his hand into his pocket, trying to take some of the weight off his bad shoulder, to maybe ease the pain. The bouncer saw him and rose immediately. The freckled face showed no expression, no question.

       Hog stepped past him and sat down beside Mickey. The bouncer moved to stand directly behind Hog, arms folded.

       After a few moments, Mickey looked up at him. "What the hell are you doing back in here?"

       Hog placed his pack of cigarettes carefully on the bar. He pulled a cigarette out, lit it, tensing his arm so it wouldn't shake. "I don't think you even know my name, Mickey. You tried to smash my shoulder this afternoon, and you don't even know my name." Hog paused. Mickey just stared at him.

       "I think that maybe you should know it, Mickey. My full name is Benjamin Moultrie Laurens. My home is in Shallotte." Hog took a long drag on his cigarette. The smoke swam up into his head. When he spoke again, his voice came out almost a whisper, "What I'm trying to say, Mickey, is that I don't like somebody trying to hurt me, especially when they don't even know my name. I don't like that at all."

       The trembling returned. Hog closed his eyes, struggled to control it. When he opened them again, Mickey was sneering.

       Hog felt anger rising inside him to fill the emptiness. He leaned forward until his face was six inches from Mickey's and said steadily, "What I'm tryin' to say, Mickey, is that if you ever so much as look at me crooked again, I swear I'll cut your liver out with my fish knife and toss it up onto the bar for the flies to eat. So help me God."

       Mickey lurched upward, "Get out of my place, you goddamn grit shrimper!" Jake leaned forward between them, put his hand on Mickey's arm, restraining him. He said, "Look across the room, Mickey."

       Mickey turned, Hog followed their gaze.

       Close to the door, on the other side of the bar, S.K. now sat beside Billy.

       The two of them were watching silently. They just sat, without drinks, watching. S.K.'s huge hands were spread flat on the polished bar top.

       Hog stood up carefully, not wanting to jar his bad arm. "Just remember what I said. Remember it good, Mickey. There ain't no doubt that I mean it. No doubt at all."

       Mickey sat down again heavily and leaned back. He studied Hog silently.

       Hog held his gaze until, finally, Mickey nodded his head slowly. "Okay, shrimper. You've said what you had to say. It's done. Now I want you to get out of my bar."

       As Hog slid his cigarette pack into his pocket and turned, Mickey said, "Tell Paula she can keep her job if she wants. I have plenty of girls who'll take it, but she's been here a long time."

       Hog nodded, walked toward the door. As he passed S.K. and Billy his captain said quietly, "We're goin' back out tomorrow. Billy says you're hurt. If you can't make it, I'll get somebody else."

       Hog didn't look at them. "Nothin wrong with me, S.K. I'll make it. I always do. You know that."

       When Hog got outside again, out into the safety of the night, he stopped and took a deep breathe. Then he took another deeper breath and let it out slowly. The shaking was almost gone. Hog paid attention to the steady breeze blowing stronger now out of the southeast onto his face. Good weather for a few more days. Maybe they'd get lucky this time. If they did get lucky, he'd probably take his pay and go home to Shallotte for a rest. He needed to go home for a rest. He needed to sit for a while.

       Then Hog headed back to the Molly Ray to try and get some sleep.

William Roth is a professor at DeSales University in the Lehigh Valley of Pennsylvania teaching the systems theory of change. He currently has five books in print on the subject of societal and organization development, as well as numerous articles. This is first published piece of fiction.

Please post a message on our community bulletin board, or send email to editor@serpentinia.com to let us know what you think about this story, and we'll pass your message along to the author.