Russell Banks - Lost Memory of Skin

Got one of those for sale?

Trinidad Bob answers by hauling another can of beer, Miller, from the cooler and slides it down the plank to the Professor.

How much?

Two bucks.

The Professor lays three singles onto the plank in front of him and waits. After thirty seconds Benbow grabs the bills and stuffs them into his pocket. He relights his meerschaum pipe.

Tobacco smells good. Not many people smoke a pipe anymore.

Trinidad Bob laughs, halfway between a chortle and a giggle. Not many people smoke anything anymore! ’Cept mary-juana! He knocks a cigarette from a pack of Parliaments and lights it. Mary-wanna. Mary Jane. Merry Christmas. You here for fish? Got some fresh smoked marlin today. He points to a large rusty oil barrel that’s been converted into a primitive smoker with a low-burning fire beneath it, the source of the sweet-smelling woodsmoke the Professor noticed earlier. Been makin’ it since mornin’. Came in yesterday afternoon. Seven bucks a pound.

Actually, I’m looking for someone. A friend of mine.

Benbow turns and looks the Professor over once, top to bottom, then goes back to the blank TV screen. What’s his name?

Kid. Just Kid. Young fellow, said he’d meet me here around now.

Never heard of him. You ever heard of him, Bob?

Trinidad Bob hesitates a few seconds, then says, Nope. Never heard of him. ’Course, we had a crowd here last night, mostly youngsters over from Calusa an’ the Barriers. He might’ve been one of them people. Lots of pretty girls in bikinis an’ mini skirts dancin’ an’ drinkin’ and partying like crazy! I was sort of distracted by all that so could’ve missed your friend named Kid. They all wanted to talk to Trinidad Bob. That’s me. Them little chickies like talkin’ to Trinidad Bob.

Because you’re so fuckin’ handsome. Without looking at him, Benbow says to the Professor: I take you for a cop.

I’m a teacher. A professor at Calusa State.

I still take you for a cop.

I take you for a vet. ’Nam. Noncommissioned officer, E-5, Air cav, probably. Or else BRO. Two tours, early 1970s. Bronze Star and a Purple Heart. I take Trinidad Bob there as a vet too. A blueleg E-2 who never got to E-3. One tour, late 1960s, maybe early 1970s like you. BRO, but not in your outfit. Took some shrapnel in the head. Like they say, FUBAR. Fucked up in the head.

Trinidad Bob says, Hey, that’s pretty good, Professor! How’d you know all that?

’Cause he’s some kinda fuckin’ cop is how. Turn on the TV, Bob. The news is over. It’s time for Jeopardy!

Bob says, Me, I always wanna watch Wheel of Fortune, but Boom, he prefers Jeopardy! So he says, anyhow. He likes questioning answers, he says. But Wheel of Fortune has Vanna White, man. Fuckin’ Vanna White! You ever check her out? Can’t get enough of that bitch, man! Bob quick-steps around the plank bar and switches on the TV, fiddles with the controls until the picture comes up on Jeopardy!

Don’t think I’ve ever seen the show, the Professor says.

You’d know if you did. They was gonna shoot an episode of that show here at Benbow’s one time, on account of so many TV shows an’ modelin’ shit and movies that gets shot here. Only at the last minute they decide to do it over on the Barriers at a fancy fuckin’ hotel instead. Too bad. I really was hopin’ to meet Vanna White in person an’ maybe get me a lick of that, y’ know what I’m sayin’? Chicks dig me, man.

The Professor glances left at the sound of a door opening and sees a thin woman in her late forties or early fifties step from the Airstream trailer, followed by a slightly older man in jeans and motorcycle boots and a muscle shirt. He has short, stiff, shoe-polish-black hair and a pure white handlebar mustache. He’s a man who lifts weights regularly — broad meaty shoulders, thick neck muscles, and slabbed biceps decorated with tattoos of overlapping dragons and unicorns. He falls into a bow-legged swagger as he nears the men. A competitive power-lifter who just got laid or a blow job, the Professor decides. Senior heavyweight division. Not a bodybuilder. Bodybuilders favor the deliberately cut look over bulk and brute strength and avoid tattoos. She must be the smoked marlin.

The man takes a position at the bar beside Trinidad Bob. The woman walks behind the bar, pulls two beers from the cooler and passes one to her companion. Her face is freckled and blotched from too much sun. She has a web of fine lines around her green eyes and a vertical cluster of smoker’s lines above her upper lip. Her thick coppery hair is cropped short, chopped rather than layered, and streaked with gray, as if the copper-red dye needs to be replenished. She’s her own hairdresser, the Professor observes. She’s full-breasted for such a thin woman and wears a loose, black chenille skirt with a dangling, ripped hem and a faded red T-shirt with I GOT CRABS AT HALEY’S CRAB SHACK printed across the front.

She smiles and says to the Professor, How’re you doin’ today, big man?

Trinidad Bob says, Boom-Boom thinks he’s a cop!

That’s interestin’. Are you?

I’m a professor at CSU. Calusa State. I’m looking for a young friend who was supposed to meet me here.

One of your students?

Sort of. A small young man in his early twenties with a buzz cut and big ears. I think he hoped to camp out here on the Key for a few days.

Sure, the Kid. He’s here. He’s still here, ain’t he, Boom?

Shut the fuck up, Yvonne.

You don’t look like a cop. Or a professor, either. I mean the way you’re dressed an’ all. What’s with the overalls?

I said shut the fuck up, Yvonne.

The weight lifter takes a final gulp from his beer and cleans his mustache with his paw like a schnauzer. I’m outa here. Check you later, Boom. He steps away from the bar, drops the can into the barrel, and walks quickly to his motorcycle. In seconds he is gone.

Yvonne smirks after him. No good-bye even? Jeez.

Cops make Paco antsy.

He said his name was Tom.

Yeah. Whatever.

Trinidad Bob looks over at the Professor. If you ain’t a cop how’d you know so much about me an’ Boom-Boom so fast? You a vet? You in ’Nam?

Would it make a difference if I were?

Without looking away from Jeopardy! Benbow says, What branch?

101st Airborne.

Yeah, you an’ everybody else. The 101st’s like Woodstock. Everybody and his brother over fifty got high and got laid at Woodstock. What year were you in ’Nam?

In-country from December fourth, 1968, to September twentieth, 1969.

Based where?

Long Binh. And mostly up in the A Shau Valley. What is this, a quiz show? Benbow’s version of Jeopardy!?

Yeah. Except in Jeopardy! you get told the answer first and the contestant has to come up with the right question.

Fair enough. Here’s an answer. “Pup tent.”

Trinidad Bob slaps his hand on the plank to ring the buzzer. I got it! “Where’s the Kid?”

Right. Next answer, “On the beach on the far side of the trailer.”

“Where’d the Kid pitch his pup tent?” Man, this is too fucking easy!

Shut the fuck up, Bob.

Here’s the final answer. Get it right, I buy a round of beers. “Yes.”

“Yes”? What the fuck kind of answer is that?