Chris Lynch - Kill Switch

“That’s good,” I say. “Jarrod, that sounds really good. But don’t get your hopes too high. Most places don’t usually hire just like-”

“Well, this ain’t most places. I ship out this afternoon. Guy told me lots of new guys apply in the morning and ship out by the afternoon. Wild, huh?”

“Can I shower?” Da says, and steps right out into the street, aiming for the bar. I yank him back just before a beer truck rumbles past.

“Sure, Da,” I say. “But the shower is this way.”

We walk in the direction of the Salvation Army mission.

“Jarrod, what do you mean, shipping out this afternoon? Shipping out to where?”

“Don’t know, don’t care, didn’t ask. I just want to go. And you guys can come too. The man said they need any live bodies I could round up. Seems like they can’t fill these jobs no how for some reason. Lucky, huh?”

“Bugger boy,” Da says, not even looking toward us.

“Da, shush.”

“What? What does that mean?” says Jarrod, more offended than worried.

“Bugger boy. Boats need bugger boys. Bugger boy.”

Jarrod looks to me, a little more desperately now.

I silently wave Da off. “He doesn’t know anything about it,” I say. “Lucky you. You’ll land on your feet. This is great news. New life maybe?”

“Maybe. That would be really good, if a little scary, too. Guy in the bar, though, he told me that pretty much everybody on the boats does most of the same what I do, so it’s cool either way.”

Well,” I say, patting him on the back, “good news on top of good news. I am happy for you, Jarrod, I really am.”

We reach the mission and stand outside for a few seconds. “Come with me,” he says, “on the boats.”

“College,” I say.

“Postpone,” he says.

“No,” I say.

“No,” Da says, though not sure to what.

We sit at a small wooden table and sip juice and coffee while Da takes his well-earned shower. Then he comes out to find the promised English muffin, plus the drinks. Just like with Jarrod, I am not even offered solids pre-delousing. Da looks happyish, having undoubtedly taken his dosage. Happyish, though, as the pills just seem to get progressively weaker for him. I don’t think we’ll be buying generic next time.

Jarrod waits with Da while I take my shower. I am quick, but my, what a shower it is. Glorious. Life-giving.

We are all but glowing, the three of us, with renewed vigor and outlook, as we finish up, thank the mission folk profusely, and move on our way.

“Want to go look for some clothes now, Da?” I ask.

“Nope,” he says. He points in the direction of the Compass and the North Star.

“Hold on,” I say, determined to do at least a small something about my attire. I run into the thrifty, grab a heavy burgundy sweatshirt that says SUFFOLK UNIVERSITY LAW SCHOOL on it and a long, pea-green all-weather trench coat off the rack, a coat just like in all the foggy old spook movies in London. Very practical. I am pulling on the trench coat as I hit the sidewalk and it fits great, if I tie the belt around twice and don’t mind a jacket down to my ankles. As it happens, I don’t.

“That’s your new wardrobe?” Jarrod jokes.

“It’s versatile,” I say. “All I will need is this and a selection of underwear.”

Jarrod leads the way across the street, the newly minted professional sailor with the appropriate side-to-side swagger in his step.

We go into the North Star, where we meet the benevolent businessman and the helpful employment agent/barman and a few early drinkers who couldn’t be more polite if we bought them drinks. Which we don’t, and won’t.

“I have to go,” Jarrod says.

“Where?” I ask.

“Over to the terminal. I have to get my uniform, get fingerprinted… all the regular new job stuff.”

“I see,” I say.

“I’ll catch up with you later. But don’t forget, I leave on the one o’clock ferry. That’ll be it, I’ll be gone. So if I don’t see you before that, make sure you’re there.”

“Of course,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He goes suddenly watery, wobbly. He grabs my hand.

“You wouldn’t, would you?” he says. “Everybody needs somebody to see them off, right? And you’re my best friend. You’re both my best friends.”

Da looks up at the tin, patterned ceiling, then down at the bare wood floor, clearly impatient with this.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say. “Count on it.”

“Okay, guys,” Jarrod says, excitedly backing away on his way to get fingerprinted and all that other usual new employee stuff.

“Now we can get a drink,” Da says, bellying up to the bar.

I follow him, and the bartender says, “ID, please.”

I am not bothered, as I really didn’t want one. I am happy to stand there while Da savors his own, however.

“Wild Turkey,” he says. “And I hope it’s the hundred-and-one proof, not that silly eighty-six stuff.”

The bartender laughs. “Well, sir, we have both. One just costs a little more.”

“Money is no object,” Da says, finally certifying his complete departure from this reality.

He does savor it, though, and the pure enjoyment I witness on his face as he does, and as he heads not once but three times over to the small circular porthole window that looks out onto the waterfront, is more intoxicating than if I had my own drink. Even the 101 proof.

“Let’s give the next place a try,” he says, nodding repeatedly his agreement with his own idea. “I bet they’ll serve you a drink. For goodness’ sake, you certainly look old enough. You look older than you did yesterday, even, you ol’ crock.”

“Sure,” I say, surfing his wave of good spirits, “let’s go, young crock.”

“Who the hell in this world plays a concertina anymore?” Da says as we sit at a grubby table in the grubby Compass Inn tavern, next to the grubby North Star Bar. Grubby as the place is, just like the North Star you can still look out the backside windows to watch the workings of the grubby harbor and the comings and goings of the ferry.

Da can barely contain his glee. One by one, salty characters attach themselves to us like barnacles, taking up all the spaces around our table. He’s like the new kid in the schoolyard everyone wants to get first friendlies with.

The little old crusty in an ancient mariner outfit comes right up and blasts his concertina music for us, at us. It is more like a battle than a performance, though it is hard to tell who is winning. It’s also hard to tell what, if any, tune is involved.

“Was that ‘Greensleeves’ toward the end there?” Da says, waving his finger at the man. The man’s wide-open, toothless, babylike smile suggests that it was.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Da says.

“I thought you’d never ask,” the man says.

“I wish you’d never asked,” I say in Da’s ear. “You don’t have a lot of money, Da. And we don’t know what’s going to come.”

He stands up and pushes my head away as he goes to the bar. At the bar I see him order, then watch as another grizzled seafaring type says something to him. Da fairly leaps into a short, animated telling of something that makes the hardened old soul gasp, cover his mouth in shock-like, then wave the barman over to get Da another shot.

A minute later, Da is sitting again with us, toasting America, the concertina, and life in general. Then, using America as his segue, he starts with the yarns.

“Did I ever tell you…,” he says to all these people he has never met before.