Serpentine, Volume 4, Number 2, Spring 2000

The Light on Elgin's Dock

by Dan Huntley

Elgin Lugoff gazed through the cigarette haze at the customers on the other side of the bar -- waving bills in the air, hollering drink orders and downing shooters -- and remembered that morning at the Outer Banks nearly a half-century ago when he first learned to become invisible.

       His father had taken him duck-hunting. Beneath a bruise-colored dawn, they floated like ghosts through the mist in a flat-bottom boat to a duck blind on North Carolina's Pamlico Sound. His father rowed, the wooden oars groaning in the oarlocks. They unwrapped the weights and carefully set the decoys on the edge of the marsh. They didn't have a dog and Elgin's job was to float out in his waders in a truck innertube and gather the downed ducks.

       They had been waiting for about a half-hour when a flock of mallards appeared out of the southwest. The ducks saw the decoys and dropped to about 50 feet on their approach. They cupped their wings and began to circle. Elgin braced himself for the boom of his father's 16-gauge shotgun. But there was only silence. And then the syncopated wing beats just before the dark birds splashed down.

       Elgin was in an exposed position, closer to the ducks than the blind. For reasons he has never fully understood, he was drawn toward the ducks instead of going back to check on his father. He tread lightly in the soft mud, his rubber boots following the rough cobs of an oyster bar. He stopped when he was about ten feet from the birds, he barely breathed as he looked out through his marsh grass float. The birds' eyes looked like black pearls set in amber, water beading on their downy backs. He could no longer touch bottom. He was soon swallowed into their midst, adrift. He felt like a young bird off the lip of its nest, testing its wings in flight.

       It was then he knew he had crossed over, he had indeed become invisible. The quick-to-scare ducks plainly did not see him.

       Elgin reveled in the freedom of his new found state. He relaxed and was soon absorbed into the floating raft of ducks.

       He wasn't sure how much time had passed in this watery netherworld but his legs were beginning to tingle and he realized he needed to return to his father. He slapped the water and the ducks exploded into flight.

       He paddled back to the blind, suddenly realizing how cold he was and beginning to fear that something was wrong with his father.

       He found him slumped over with drool frozen on his chin. It took Elgin nearly four hours to find his way back to the car. Elgin could not tell at what point his father has actually died. It could have been before he was trying to load him into the boat and dropped him into the water. More likely, it was along one of the nameless tidal creeks that petered out into a sea of marsh grass as Elgin madly tried to find his way back to the car. The hardest thing was he got to the car and had to peel back his father's waders to reach into his damp but still warm pants pocket for the keys.

       Back at the bar, Elgin shook his head and continued rinsing a beer mug. He smiled at the disembodied crowd of talking heads before him, their hands alternately holding cigarettes, stroking their own hair, resting on someone's shoulder, or jabbing the air. He mused at the peculiar yin-yang which occurs around 10 p.m. at restaurants with bars. The eaters begin to leave in roughly the same proportion that the drinkers begin to arrive.

       And that's how most nights unfolded at the Lucky Strike Fish Camp.

       Lucky liked to keep it dark in his bar, knowing serious drinkers avoided strong light.

       "You build a bar like a bunker, because that's what it is. Protection from the outside world," Lucky had said more than once to his best barkeep, Elgin. "And all the better to build it with no windows, too. You ever tried to leave a bar in the middle of a hot afternoon and that sunlight hits your eyes? The glare is worse than a highway patrolman's flashlight. Avoiding that light is what keeps us in business."

       "Yeah, and at that point, it's just like serving nectar to a swarm of honey bees," Elgin said as he artfully arranged quarter-sliced limes between the Maraschino cherries on the prep tray.

       "And I guess that kind of makes you queen of the hive," Lucky said, grinning but not looking up as he stuck his finger in his glass to stir his Scotch.

       Elgin had not told Lucky but he increasingly preferred keeping it dark around the bar. Not because he shared the alcoholics' reticence for luminescence but because he was losing his sight. He suffered from retinitis pigmentosis. He first recognized it in the stands at the minor league park when he began losing high flies in the outfield.

       Eventually it had led to his early retirement as an English professor at the community college. But Elgin didn't need a seeing-eye dog and the opthamologist had said the loss of sight would run its course just short of total blindness.

       Medical researchers would argue that eye problems were impossible to link causally to other ailments in the body such as arthritis and Alzheimer's. But Elgin knew as surely as the part of his hair, old age was upon him. For several years, he had been expecting senility to come on suddenly in the night like an October ice storm. He imagined a grand mal seizure while he was lecturing on Pound's Cantos.

       But he had not expected such an insidiously subtle descent, the body functions beginning to stutter like a trusted lawn mower. If he had a warning, it was a recurrent prostate infection in his early 50s; his family practitioner had suspected colon cancer and recommended a series of tests with a specialist. Elgin politely took the appointment card from his doctor's nurse and dropped in a trash receptacle by the waiting room door. But even the easing of his libidinous sex drive did not effect him like the darkening of his vision.

       At first he was frightened but he became resigned that it was a just matter of time; and his was up. For a while, he was even thankful he had the opportunity to get his house and financial records in order. He wasn't trying to emulate stoicism in a modern literary hero, he had simply decided that whatever was eating at his insides, he wouldn't help it along, but he wasn't going to fight it either.

       He still wore his gold-rimmed glasses from habit and could make out rough shapes at Lucky's.

       Elgin never thought he would acknowledge that blindness had its advantages; but the darkness around the bar was becoming his ally. He developed the instincts of a perfect lover, relying almost solely on touch, smell and taste. He'd learned to recognize the regulars at Lucky's by the cadence of their walk, or their scent. He was also blessed with a photographic memory which helped him adjust in unexpected ways. The waitresses all covered for him, ringing up their own bar tabs and calling out their drink orders.

       Elgin would sort the orders in his mind like cards and deal the drinks clockwise onto the waitresses' round trays.

       He prowled the wooden catwalk behind the bar, honing his other senses till they shined like the feathered edge of his father's hunting knife. Asleep, he became a beachcomber in the dream world. He welcomed this stage in his life where he could follow his dreamy intuitions.

       One morning he woke with a vision of lit-from-within bottles in a triangle and liquids stored in odd-shaped containers. That afternoon he arranged the liquor in alphabetical order in a pyramid shelf before the bar's grand mirror – from Anise-flavored gin to Zagat's dark rum. He began storing the orange juice in a round pitcher and the tomato juice in a square one.

       Behind the bar, Elgin mixed all the cocktails and handled the foreign bottle beer. The prep-man worked domestic tap and all canned beer. The Coke dispenser was on the right, water in the middle and ginger ale on the left. The prep guys had to really hustle, but the system worked flawlessly in heavy traffic. And that's more than you could expect from a nearly-blind barkeep.

       The worst thing about Elgin's declining eyesight was that it eliminated most all of his pleasure reading, and he missed his nightly ritual. He would climb into his Mayan hammock with its rainbow strips of embroidered cloth, a favorite novel propped upon his chest. But surprisingly, the pleasure of leather-bound classics had been replaced by the aural magic of books-on-cassette. He was particularly fond of the books read by the authors. He listened like an enraptured child to the scratchy-whizened voice of Faulkner as he accepted the Nobel Prize for Literature in Stockholm before down-shifting his cadence like a trucker on a low grade to Benjy's imbicilic soliloquy in The Sound And The Fury. Sometimes, Elgin would open the windows to the bird songs rising from the river and he'd play Joyce's melodic Molly mantra in Ulysses, the yesses spilling from her mouth into a crescendo.

       Truth be told, he did miss his students, most of whom had paid scant attention to his lectures and derisively referred to his class as Chicken Lit or FOWL, because of his emphasis on the old Southern masters -- Faulkner, O'connor, Wolfe literature. Actually, he had thought such a literary device beyond the scope of his students. And he was so delighted he began using the course description in the college catalog. He used to long for honor students like his graduate classmates in Charlottesville, but that was not to be at a college intent on feeding the local economy a steady diet of dental techs and glorified, daycare workers. After nearly twenty years of teaching, he'd learned that coming across one pearl of a student amidst a bucket of marbles, was a good semester.

       The irony is that he, the English scholar, had beat some of his own students into the glorious ranks of the under-employed. Sometimes former students would look up from their tables, sipping cheap Charddonay with their fried flounder, and say "Hey, pops, do you remember me?"

       Elgin was happy, living in his family's "fashionably shabby" old cabin on the on the Redneck Riviera, a stretch of the Catawba River just south of Charlotte. The waterfront lot was worth ten-times the old fishing cabin with its wraparound porch and storm-ravaged wooden dock.

       Because he could no longer drive, Elgin walked to work in the late afternoons down by the river which flowed by his yard on its way from the Appalachian foothills to the Atlantic near Charleston. That spring an immature bald eagle began roosting in an ancient cypress snag overlooking Elgin's cove. The eagle would catch bream and crappie in the clear shallows and carry it to his perch. With the still-flopping fish in one of its talons he would tear at the meat with his beak. Elgin could no longer see the eagle, but he could recognize him by his high-pitched, plaintive shrieks which sounded like a squeegee on nearly dry glass. Elgin thought the eagle was staking out his territory; a waitress had a different opinion.

       "Ain't nothing else in the world cause noises like that," Doreen said. "That poor bird needs to get laid."

       In the late spring, the river took on the hues of a dark forest green, especially up in the deep coves near his cabin. But after a long winter rain, the runoff would spill over the upriver dams, causing the red clay banks to bleed. And the river would turn the color of an orange mud milkshake all frothy at the edges where trees stripped of bark – looking like skin peeled to the muscle -- would bob to the surface.

       Elgin remembered a similar rainy spring when a boy at school, Keith Pinckney, had drowned while catfishing in the deep water by the Lake Wylie dam. Elgin was to join them the next day for a fish fry and cooter stew. Keith had been engaged to be married in June. It was a Memorial Day weekend and Elgin remembered the next morning standing on the shore and watching the York County Rescue Squad sling grappling hooks from their bass boats. They gave up after several weeks and waited for the warmer water to lift the body. But Keith never rose; the coroner said he probably got sucked into the dam's turbines.

       Elgin had a recurrent dream about diving to the river bottom to search for the Keith's body. The water was so dark he couldn't see so he felt with his hands in the oozy mud. It was one of those frustration dreams where he'd never be able to find the body, always waking up in a sweaty panic, twisted in the sheets. One night he finally discovered a soft underbelly in the dark mud. But when Elgin reached his arms around the mid-section, it shook violently alive, rolling in his grasp and Elgin suddenly was staring into the whiskered face of a huge catfish.

       Elgin would watch the seasons unfold from his river bank. Fall used to be his favorite season but about ten years ago in a duck blind off Bull Island, he shucked a smoking .410 shell from the breech of his gun and as it fell onto the beach, he lost his desire to ever again shoot a bird. Elgin couldn't explain it to his hunting buddies, he didn't understand it himself.

       He didn't even drink that much anymore, his only true vice arrived once a week, a 100-pound sack of chicken scratch and bird seed. He delighted in feeding the dozens of mergansers, mallards, anihingas, pintails, and Canada geese who wintered around his dock.

       Sometimes, with an aria playing up at the cabin, he would dance -- like Peter O'Toole did with his sword in "Lawrence of Arabia" -- sashaying as he'd sling scoops of feed along the bank and into the shallows. He would glide along the splintered boards, imagining the birds were applauding with their flapping wings. The dance became more flamboyant as he lost more of his sight. Because he could no longer see his neighbors on their faraway docks, he assumed they couldn't see him. It was at times like this he would experience a Buddha-like tranquillity when the ducks would relax after feeding and preen or bury their bills in their feathered backs to sleep. The birds would be oblivious to his slow and deliberate movement among them. With steps as carefully choreographed as Tai Chi, he would once again practice his invisibility. He had gradually prolonged his stays among the birds, up to 45 minutes, and began to imagine a day when he would not return to the visible world.

       In the summer, after his ducks had flown back north, the waitresses would begin to stop by after work. It was usually after 1 a.m. when they finally left Lucky's. Most places would already be closed but the waitresses would be too wound-up to sleep, so they'd stop by at Elgin's and have a nightcap. Some nights they'd swim.

       Elgin was the consummate host, some evenings he'd make sangria with a fine French Merlot mixed with pineapple, oranges, and a dollop of Grand Marnier. Women love drinks with fresh fruit. Most guys think they're making a grand concession to a woman by popping her a lite beer. It was one of many observations of the sexes Elgin had gleaned in his darkened lair behind the bar.

       Other nights, Elgin would fix cocktails. The waitresses' favorite was a martini he'd make with a jigger of Lady Godiva Chocolate Liqueur and icy cold Absolut Vodka. If Elgin was on a tear, he'd even edge the martini glasses with cream and dip the rims in powdered cocoa.

       "It's not as if you girls need one, but this is a guaranteed aphrodisiac if I ever tasted one."

       The waitresses would begin by elegantly sipping the sweet icy concoctions but by the third round, they'd be chugging them back like sailors.

       It was one of those chocolate nights that a new waitress named Rachel asked where she could change into her swimsuit. She was a single mother who prepped the salad bar and bussed tables.

       "Heck Rachel, we just change right here in the den, there's no one here but us gals," Doreen said with a chuckle and reaching for a drink. "And Elgin couldn't peek, even if he wanted to."

       Elgin laughed too as he continued mixing drinks by the kitchen counter. Between snatches of conversation, he could hear the metal teeth of zippers uncoiling and skirts dropping to the pine floor. He put the drinks upon a round tray from Lucky's. He called out the women's names and delivered the drinks, pretending to cover his eyes with his free hand. The women were in various stages of undress.

       Doreen said, "What the hell girls, it's a hot night, let's just turn off the dock light and skinny-dip."

       The other women agreed and ran down the dock, squealing as they did cannon balls and can-openers into the warm water. Elgin walked through the quiet den. Perfume hung in the empty room like chimney smoke in a cold valley.

       They coaxed Elgin down to the dock.

       "Come on scaredy-cat, you don't have anything we haven't seen before," laughed Doreen, who had just wrangled a mortgage-free, double-wide trailer from her philandering husband.

       Elgin dropped his shorts on the dock and did a shallow-water dive. He arose to the sounds of hooting and laughter.

       Doreen swished behind him, holding her drink above the water.

       "You know Elgin, I just flat-out love having a man around who is not constantly on the prowl," she purred. "Especially, a gray-haired gentleman like yourself. You remind me of my old tom cat after we declawed him."

       Ten years ago, Elgin thought to himself, she wouldn't have said that. And a few years ago, her words would have offended him. But he was beyond that now, immune to the lusts of the heart and other blood sports of his youth.

       Now, it was enough to just be able to provide refuge for his friends.

       On these rare summer nights with the dock light off, Elgin could see as well as anyone.

       While swimming that night Rachel would sneak up behind Elgin, putting her hands over his eyes and meowing "Guess who?" He recognized her the first time by her Chanel No. 5. and the pinge of citrus oil on her breath. He had cut tiny zests of tangerine skin for her special drink. He would call out every other waitress's name he could think of, which made her giggle uncontrollably. A child in a woman's body, she made the water jiggle around his shoulders. It was like watching a mallard drop out of formation when he made his duck call; he had her in his sights.

       Brushing against his back, Rachel's upturned breasts felt like Bartlett pears, soft with a loose-skinned ripeness. She climbed onto his back, he felt the bite of her nails on the top of his shoulders. Elgin swam away from the group with her.

       "Whoooo Eeeeeee, ride'm cowboy," Rachel yodeled, one hand hoisting her drink heavenward, and the other holding on around his neck. He dog paddled over to where he could touch the muddy bottom. The crowd had turned its attention to a diving competition off the front of the dock.

       Rachel slipped off his back, gulped her drink, and faced Elgin, the tops of her breasts peeking above the water. Elgin considered placing his hands around her slick, wiggling hips.

       It had been a long time. Would she coo in his ear? Or would she buck and roll like one of those giant catfish in his dreams?

       Elgin hesitated, then gently grasped Rachel's hand and started frog-kicking back toward the other women. He stared up and saw stars above the darkened outline of the trees along the far bank. Blinking water from his eyes, the tiny lights began to move, fluttering in tandem like minnows. He smiled, the light specks were fire flies.

       Doreen was wrapped in a beach towel and was leaning down pouring drinks from a pitcher. Rachel held up her glass and it was filled to overflowing, the milky liqueur slowly dripping down her darkened, upraised forearm.

       Elgin kicked away from the dock and floated on his back, buoyed by his full lungs. Once again he found himself floating undetected in their midst. Elgin shut his eyes, trying to forget when he was once a hunter.

Dan Huntley is a columnist for The Charlotte Observer newspaper. His beats have included crime, politics, and education. His story was inspired by the first writer he met when he was in junior high school. The real "Elgin" was also an alcoholic fisherman raconteur who spent his last years tending a funky little bar along the muddy Catawba, and would be flabbergasted to know someone was really listening.

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