Butchblog

A short story

Jack was hungover. He took a long drink of water directly from the faucet, then stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. When did I get so damn old? he thought. His hair fell in greasy clumps on either side of his drooping jowls. He quickly pushed it back up and over his mostly barren pate. “At least it ain’t gray,” he said. Jack thought about taking a shower, but decided it would take too much effort, so just threw some water on his face and went back into the bedroom, where his wife, Janice, was still asleep. He pulled open the closet door so that it banged loudly against the wall, then grabbed his overalls and a pair of rubber boots, stumbled across the room and plopped down on his side of the bed, jarring Janice awake. She groaned and turned away from him. They’d been married now for more than 40 years, and had stopped liking each other a long time ago.

            Jack was going fishing this morning with a couple of his drinking buddies. They’d probably show up late and miss the tide, but Jack didn’t care. He just liked being out on the water, drinking beer and shooting the shit with Little Jack and Davey. He pulled a can of beer from the fridge and downed it in two swallows, then grabbed the rest of the six-pack and a bottle of vodka and headed out the front door. Since none of the neighbors were probably yet awake, Jack zipped open his fly and urinated in the shrubs and flowers that Janice was always fussing with. Nothing better than pissing on your own damn yard, he thought. He zipped up and went to check out his boat, waiting in the driveway.

            If there was anything in the world that Jack treasured, it was his new boat. It made him happy to look at it, all gleaming aluminum, with bold painted lightning bolts sprayed on the hull. Jack had spent a small fortune for the craft, along with the two 80 horse-power Mercury outboards. Janice, who rarely complained about Jack’s behavior any longer, was outraged at how much he’d spent on the boat—especially with their limited retirement income, which came mostly from Janice’s pension and social security. “What the hell,” he had snapped at her. “Don’t I deserve a little something for myself.” She hadn’t bothered to answer.

            Janice had expected more from her married life—more fun, excitement, love. And if not love, then affection and comfort. Janice wanted someone to talk to, to tell about her day. But all she got from Jack was disrespect. He even expected her to buy his damn underwear for him. And she did. Janice would get through the day, but it was becoming more of a struggle. Jack was off again with his so-called friends. Out in that silly boat of his. All those years of self-denial, just so her idiot husband could waste it on another dumb toy. She finally had to admit to herself—she hated Jack, hated him with an intensity that surprised and scared her.

            Jack backed the trailer down the boat ramp, but turned the steering wheel of his SUV the wrong way and the boat veered off the ramp. “Come on, assholes,” he yelled out the window at Little Jack and Davey, “you’re supposed to be guiding me.”

            “I told you to turn it to the right,” Davey hollered back. But Little Jack grabbed his sleeve and pulled so that Dave would not start fighting with Big Jack like they often did.

            Jack glanced at the line-up of fishermen behind him, waiting to get their boats in the water. “Fuck them,” he muttered. Then pulled the over-sized vehicle back up the ramp until he bumped the trailer of the pick-up truck next in line.

            “Hey man,” the driver shouted. ” Don’t you know how to drive that thing?”

            Jack waved apologetically. This time he backed slowly down and watched carefully the hand signals that Davey flashed. Finally, the boat was in the water and Jack pulled away to park the rig, keeping his head down as he drove.

            “You drive,” Jack commanded Little Jack once they were out of the harbor.

            “No problem, Jack. I’ll take it slow.”

            “Don’t ‘take it slow’ dum-dum,” Jack said. “What do you think all that horsepower is for?” Jack settled back in one of the cushioned seats. “I want to catch a fish sometime this year.”

            “Hey Davey, toss me another Bud, will ya?”

            “Get it yourself,” Davey snapped back. “I’m cutting bait.”

            “I’ll get it,” Little Jack yelled above the roar of the two big outboards, and keeping one hand on the steering wheel, stretched out to dip into the Styrofoam cooler.

            “Watch where you’re going,” Jack yelled at him. “You’re going to kill us all, you dope.” He laughed as he caught the cold beer Little Jack flipped to him and popped it open.

            They anchored close to some other boats. Jack had never really figured out the best way to locate fish, so when he saw other fishermen he just moved on into their space. The three of them baited up and dropped their lines overboard. Jack cast his line out close to an elderly guy in an old wooden boat.  “Catching anything?” Jack yelled. The old man hunched his shoulders and turned away.

            After an hour or so, the three of them had each knocked down a couple beers and had started in on the warm vodka. They hadn’t had even a nibble, though they couldn’t help noticing as the old guy in the wooden boat pulled in two hefty silvers. “Boys, maybe it’s time to move,” Davy said.

            “Yeah, let’s pull in closer to the old fart,” Jack said. “He’s gotta be right over them.”

            “I’m not gonna do that,” Davey said. “Let’s go find our own spot.”

            “That’s a good idea,” Little Jack chimed in, and moved to pull up the anchor.

            “No way,” Jack said, taking another long hit off the vodka bottle. “My boat, my decision.” He stood up and stumbled to the cockpit to start the engine. “We’re moving next to grandpa over there. No reason he gets all the damn fish.”

            “I’m not doing this,” Davey said again. “It ain’t no way to act.”

            “Not much you can do about it, is there?” Jack said, then nodded at Little Jack. “Get that anchor up.”

            “I gotta agree with Dave,” Little Jack said, dropping his head.

            “Who cares what you agree with, dimwit.”

            “Don’t talk to him like that,” Davey said, standing up and reeling in his line. “We either find a new spot or head back in.” He put down his rig. “What’s it gonna be?”

            Sometimes Jack forgot what a big man Davey was. The dope even went to the gym every other day to pump iron. “It’s my boat.”

            “Don’t give a good goddamn,” Dave said. “You don’t move onto another dude’s territory.”

            Jack looked over at Little Jack, but he was looking out over the stern.

            “Okay, motherfuckers, you win. Let’s head in. I’m tired of this shit anyway.”

            “What’d you call me?”

            “Nothing,” Jack said. “Let’s just go home. No damn fish here anyway.”

            “Take it back,” Davey said.

            “Come on, you guys.” Little Jack stood up. “No reason to get all upset.”

            “Plenty of reason,” Davey said, moving so close that the beak of his baseball cap poked into Jack’s forehead. “I want an apology.”

            The guy in the old wooden boat yanked the cord on his outboard then, the sound of the motor drawing their attention. He pulled past them and nodded.

            “Whatever,” Jack said. “I’m sorry if I hurt your damn feelings.” Jack turned the key and the engines roared to life.

            A second later he felt the blow. He wasn’t sure what had happened, only that he was now laying on the watery deck, his cheek throbbing. He thought maybe one of the engines had exploded. When he looked up, there was Dave standing over him, his fist balled at his side. Little Jack stood next to him, looking both alarmed and amused.

            “Now we can go back,” Davey said.

            “Might as well,” Little Jack said.

            Jack stayed down on the wet deck as he felt the boat, his boat, power off. His anger seeped away as he lay there, the odors of gasoline and fish bait surrounding him. What if he could just go to sleep now and wake up someplace else? Someplace where he was young again and nobody knew who he was. Then he thought about what he would tell Janice about today. At least he still had her.

            Janice sat at the kitchen table, a pad of paper in front of her. She was trying hard to figure out what to say. She looked around the kitchen where she had spent so many years. She especially loved the new 4-burner gas stove that she had talked Jack into buying for her. I guess he does have some good qualities, she thought; though other than the stove none came to mind. She picked up her pen. There was no good way to do this, so she wrote on the paper only:

Dear Jack,

            I’ve made up my mind. It’s time for me to leave. Don’t try to find me. Not ever.

Janice      

            PS Your underwear size is extra-large.