Dickerson strikes the match and keeps it close, watching the flame take hold, fitfully at first, then cool and blue, it burns into the cigarette paper, setting the tightly packed tobacco strands alight.
On a bench in the middle of the room lies Welsh Losser, bound but not gagged, butt-naked but for a pair of green rubber underpants stretched across his baby-fat frame.
Dickerson inhales smoothly, cocks back his gray fedora and releases a thick stream of smoke out his nose.
“For heaven’s sake, let me get a gulp or two of fresh air before you finish me off,” cries Losser. He wiggles indignantly, more to keep warm than in any hope of loosening his bonds.
“I really don’t see any reason for drama. You’ve got me and that’s it. I always was a sucker for a black jack across the back of the head. Yup, I fell for it hook, line and sinker, nyuh, nyuh.”
Dickerson flicks a hot ash on the floor and watches it burn into cinders that curl into the shape of a caterpillar.
Losser strains to peek back over his shoulder and catch a glimpse of his captor, or at least follow what Dickerson’s doing, but he can’t because he doesn’t have a neck, just a fireplug-shaped head that comes out of a torso.
“Hey there now, don’t go burning the place down, Dirk, wherever it is where we’re at, that is. It could be Seattle as far as I know, nyuh nyuh. Something smells fishy here, that’s for sure. I can even see the fog rolling in, or is that your cigarette still burning? I feel like a smoked salmon on a stick, although I’m told I more resemble a tuna, particularly around the gills, nyuh, nyuh.”
Dickerson begins to untangle a thick pair of insulated cables connected to a large power block sitting in the corner. It’s like a net, with one end weaving into another, he thinks.
Losser’s flesh has gone pink and clammy. His small mouth is fluttering, even when he’s not saying anything. His eyes are big and strained.
“I don’t have to tell you how ridiculous I feel, and certainly must look a sight – fit to be strung up, if I already wasn’t tied down, nyuh, nyuh. What are you going to do with me after the cookout, Dirk? Peel back the skin and remove all the bones? It’s still all me underneath.
“As you well know, I’m more concerned than most with image – mine first and foremost, from a professional point of view, of course. I certainly don’t want to end up posing in a snapshot as the catch of the day, nyuh, nyuh.”
Dickerson pulls out a penknife and begins to splice the cables, trimming back the rubber coating, twisting the wire into place. These things haven’t been used in ages, he thinks.
Losser is now almost flapping on the bench in the middle of the room. Walleyed and hairless, he could be mistaken for a sea mammal bellowing plaintively for an old fisherman to throw him back into the ocean. I’m not a fish, gosh darnit. If only the boat would tip to one side, or a big wave would wash him overboard to sweet freedom. Cool blue water all around and him holding his breath beneath it in the hope of swimming to safety on the shore.
Dickerson recalls…
“Senor, senor, please let him go. It’s bad luck, for sure,” cries the little Mexican boy.
He and Dickerson are anchored in a skiff about a mile off shore, where they have pulled up an enormous, and by the looks of it, ancient sea turtle.
Dickerson is holding it between a knee-high pair of rubber boots and wants to cut off its head for bait, and then maybe save the shell as a trophy.
“Please Mr. Dirk. It’s bad luck, especially for you,” says the boy, who then goes on to recount a story told to him by his grandfather, also a fisherman.
“A long time ago, our island was inhabited not only by people but by monkeys… with wings. They would move along the tops of the trees in small groups, throwing coconuts and sometimes other things at anyone who walked by. They were very bad monkeys, for sure.
“Then one day, a gringo arrived from the sea. Los Pantalones, the people called him, because he appeared not to have an ass,” the boy continues.
“All the monkeys were afraid of him, for sure. But the people were scared, too. Everyone, in fact, was frightened of this man, except the old turtle of the sea, my grandfather would say.
“Los Pantalones would dig all night and sleep all day, with one eye open, but no one knew what he was after. Then one morning he was approached by the old turtle who promised to lead him to a treasure if only he would never return to our island.”
“And everyone lived happily ever after,” remarks Dickerson.
“For sure, Senor Dirk.”
“I’ve always waved off wives’ tales,” thinks Dickerson, “but the truth is I’m as superstitious as a soup spoon. And life’s proven me right.”
Losser continues to flounder on the bench, his body fat slapping against the planks.
“Every morning it’s the same routine. What time is it when I wake up? If it’s seven, I’ll be lucky. Eight is bad in any combination. And the worst is 9:11 a.m. Then there’s how much money I have in my pocket from the night before, the date, and any other fucking number I come across.”
Dickerson spits, gets up and clamps the cables to Losser’s waist fat. A foul smell rises from the rubber shorts.
“So I’ve lost my job because of a dead turtle. My wife left me because of a dead turtle. I’m losing my mind because of…”
Dickerson hits the switch, but the electricity nips into his fingertips, races up his arm and surges down his spine, then back up until all goes black.
He comes to alone in the room and quickly looks at his watch. It’s long past 11:00 p.m.
Filed by Dirk Dickerson, for The Running Sands of Time, December 24, 2013