PART NINETEEN
(Published in 1999)
Now here I am, at the highway that will lead me to hell, a.k.a. Superior, Wisconsin. There’s an ungodly roar coming off the lake and the stuff coming out of the sky has the texture of bird shit. Maybe I should hitchhike, I’m thinking. There’s been someone through here, I can tell… drifted over ruts in the road. They’d probably try and take me to a hospital or something… I think my face is bleeding. I’ll just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Or one stump in front of another, come some sunny day if the creeks don’t rise. Roy is due any minute….
You ever hear the sound of a crow on a mild spring day and think to yourself what a nice sound that is? How things seem more right with the world if there’s a crow up in a tree, cawing down at you? That’s the feeling I’m getting from that big black raven son-of-a-bitch up in that tree across the road. He’s about fifty yards down and making the sweetest sound. It’s not a nice day, but the wall-of- pines provide some protection from the wind. He’s perched up there ruffling his feathers and flexing his wings.
All of a sudden I’m thinking I should take my jacket off and go after that crow. It’s all of a sudden so nice and warm. But that can’t be right. I don’t know what I’m thinking about, I guess. Maybe the crow can explain all this….
When I get near the tree, the crow takes off and spreads his shining wings and flies down another twenty-five yards or so and perches on top of a mailbox. I go after it again. Maybe I can throw salt on its tail, there’s so much lying on the ground up here.
A mailbox?
A driveway?
Down the drive, around the bend, there’s a house. A big, warm house on a cliff overlooking the lake with a light on above the door.
I’m so thankful when I knock on the storm door. I’m saved. A little porthole in the door opens up, and I see the face of my savior, a decent looking broad about forty.
She takes one look at me, and starts screaming her lungs out. I can hear her yelling, “Call the sheriff, Steve,” behind the thick door. Then I hear a crow making a sound remarkably like the yuppie bitch’s yelling. I see the bird perched on a cedar railing alongside a stone stairway that leads down to the shore of raging Lake Superior.
I pick up a rock from out of the little decorator’s row that runs around the front of the house, and peg it at the crow. Not even close. I walk over and he flies off towards the lake.
Down at the shore there’s a dock with a big boat covered by a blue tarp. Looks like a Boston Whaler with a high windshield and a small flying bridge, two big, black, shiny Mercs on the back. She’s lifted out of the water, but I think she’ll probably go. Even got some downriggers if I feel like trolling. Someone’s been using it this year already; everything is clean. I know boats. Worked on a fishing boat once, just outside of New Orleans. I was nineteen.
Water splashes on my feet as I check her out. The prop looks okay; nice electric winch set-up keeping her dry. I push the green button on the control box on the cedar post and Lucky Lady settles down nicely, like a kiddy ride at the fair. I have to admire this guy’s set-up: protected little cove, nice little cliff-side abode and truly first class permanent dockage.
Once she’s in the water and rocking, I unzip the blue boat cover and jump inside to the controls. Sure enough the key is there. I give it a turn.
Nothing.
Again.
Nothing.
I rip off the cover and fling it aside and dash to the stern in a frantic search for the battery. I find it; the positive cable is unhooked. I put the clamp on the post, but it’s loose as a whore’s snatch.
My fingers don’t work any more; they are hunks of dead wood. There has got to be a wrench or pliers somewhere… just calm down.
Look.
Slow down.
Goddamnfuckingsonofabitch.
I see a little gray plastic box with CRAFTSMAN stamped on top.
Somehow, I manage to tighten down that clamp. Somehow, the engine fires up. Oh what a beautiful sound, exhaust spitting against the water. Somehow, I unhook the moorings.
Motoring slowly, I can feel the power of the lake building in my chest. Up ahead of me is some angry water. God how I don’t want to leave the safe harbor. God….
There is no God. Eight-foot waves crash against the jagged rocks, roaring like the angry ghosts of a thousand drowned souls.
Fear, Daddy, fear.
God help me now.
There is no God.
I push the throttle down and tug at the dark green rain suit that I found under the seat. If only there had been some dry clothes or maybe a blanket. I keep it a little below half throttle and just aim at the center of the breakers. Straight on into the wind. First big one we hit, there’s a heavy crunch and we rock. I’m thinking we’re in trouble, but we hang tight. I just aim it like a torpedo and hold on tight and up the throttle just a bit. Words cannot describe the bouncing, pounding, gut wrenching, bile tasting kick of Gitchi Gummi. What does the name mean, Roy? Bad Fucking Lake? Lake that never gives up its dead? Like the song says, you know.
I’m going to beat this lake. Must’ve been at it about an eternity already….
The water seems calmer now. Maybe I’m in heaven. But no, it is calmer. I’m coming to something. The water is brown, muddy over here. Waves are only rollers now. I can throttle up a little more.
When I first spot land, I feel like Christopher Columbus or one of them guys must’ve felt. So what if it’s an ugly, red clay shore line with a raging snowstorm going on and everything frozen but my gut, which burns like hell. It’s fucking land, beautiful, marvelous land. I love land, don’t you?
Two hundred yards from shore, the engines gasp and spit. They kick back in for another fifty yards and then quit for good. The boat coasts forward for a moment, then slowly turns and begins drifting back. Drifting ever faster, inexorably returning to the middle of the raging, rocking death ride.
I can see huge black serpents coiling and rolling in the dark water.
I’m drifing back to that lonely, indifferent place….
I crank and crank on the starter, but she won’t go; the gas gauge is stuck on the big E.
As the shoreline slowly fades from view, there’s a rock in my gut. For an instant, I’m ready to jump. Grab a life jacket and jump. But I never could swim much. And the water looks so cold. I’m sick of cold. What is it anyway? This cold? This wet? This lake?
Somewhere the sun is shining, but mighty Casey has struck out.
And now it’s too late.
I just need some sleep. All those drugs… Ginny… goddamn Stu…
Roy.
It’s starting to get going again out here; the black snakes are licking at the sides of the boat. Best thing to do is curl in the cabin and get some heavy rest. Just lay down and dream a little… maybe, come first light, my daddy will be there waiting….
The end