Thomas McGuane - Ninety-Two in the Shade

“Immediately, Missussss Cole.”

Some grave force carried Klaus to the kitchen. He emerged shortly with the bowser and, positioning himself to look down Miranda’s blouse, he rammed the beef home. Later, Miranda watched the little beast growling in defense of this world of meat, bloodying his bald narrow paws, and running his sliver of tongue through the fat.

* * *

When Peewee Knowles returned from Cuba, he spent a week in political quarantine watched by a mongoose from Central Intelligence, watched and questioned and obliged to fill out profiles until his actual nauseating footling politics were triangulated. The Central Intelligence man, who turned out, oddly enough, to be named Don and who was, weird thing, from the Plains states, totaled up the numerical equivalents of Peewee’s responses and evaluations. Don’s manner with a column of numbers was not unlike that of Myron Moorhen; and when he came up with his total, he divided it by the index number of 10, checked his figures, rose to his feet, and told Peewee he was a Great American.

Peewee headed for Burdine’s and bought the complete Arnold Palmer dress ensemble; then sloped to the barbershop in the shopping plaza. “Where did you get your last haircut?” asked the barber. “Key West?”

Peewee turned to him, stared, and said, “No clippers in the back.”

When the little insurance man returned to the island city and rejoined his great wife, he was surprised to find himself set upon once more by collection agents. Peewee grew hot around the collar. He was fit to be tied. Soon, however, by selling insurance himself rather than only adjusting, Peewee began to perceive a light at the end of the tunnel. And somewhere along in there, Peewee heard what no married man wants to hear: that, in his absence, the little woman had been putting out.

His first response was an unkind joke. He told Bella that before he’d consider making the love with her again, he would have to slam a five-pound picnic ham in her twat and pull out the bone. Bella gave him a good thrashing for that one.

A day later, Peewee was storming across Key West toward the Skelton Building on Eaton. Goldsboro Skelton was either going to buy a Homeowner’s, a Premium Endowment, and a costly Life, or Peewee was going to know the reason why.

“I’m here to see Mr. Goldsboro Skelton.”

“I’ll ring him,” said Bella.

Peewee entered Skelton’s office.

“How much of that jazz am I going to have to buy?” Goldsboro Skelton inquired of the American. Then just to show Skelton who he was dealing with, Peewee Knowles wrote out a check for a thousand dollars and lit his cigar with it.

That night Peewee entered Bella from beneath, figuring forth the rising aspirations that newly filled his breast like a thousand angry penguins. As for Bella, she lowered herself upon Peewee with a rubicund sense of her own age and history that soon had the temporarily forgotten Peewee calling for air.

* * *

Skelton laid his fear in like supplies. Up before the sun, he had the gear on his bed, his Polaroids hanging around his neck on monofilament. No wind yet; trees still in the dark; one or two lights on next door.

What does that strip-miner want to eat. He will eat what I give him. Skelton made four liver-sausage and onion sandwiches and put them in the wooden box with oranges and a six-pack of Gator Ade. Tackle was in the boat. Shrimp were in the live wells: six dozen chum, four dozen bait. He had to keep his eye on the ball: a trophy for Olie Slatt.

Ready. Skelton walked around the inside of the fuselage, opened his books with their pages of magic animals; he glanced at his own jejune speculations on DNA replication, graphs in Thompson on the variability of error, a sketch of hypertrophied feathers and prehensile fingers buried in whale flippers: his private, lost science.

* * *

There is something, he thought, that I am tired of.

Breakfast at Shorty’s: the famous French toast. Open-hearted fry cooks soar under the menu-cyclorama. The waitress with the blue hair cast a discriminating glance into the doughnut cabinet.

A black gentleman, the only other customer, slid the sugar bowl down the counter to Skelton with exquisite judgment of distance. Skelton fell in love with him. The other waitress, a blond indifferent trull, refilled Skelton’s coffee without his asking. He fell in love with her; and mooned between his two new paramours while his Shorty’s famous French toast chilled and glazed under a glossy patina of syrup.

I am in love, thought Skelton, though his glances seemed to embarrass both objects of his ardor.

Now let’s get over that and read the tide book so we will know where the trophies mean to be today.

TIDE TABLES

High and low water predictions

EAST COAST OF NORTH AND SOUTH AMERICA

INCLUDING GREENLAND

He opened the book and stared at it a few long moments before realizing he didn’t need the predictions for Isla Zapara, Venezuela. Idly he eliminated Savannah River entrance, Galveston, and St. John, New Brunswick.

Key West, wintertime, was on page 122. He found his date and read:

0024 0.8

0518 0.0

1142 1.7

1906 0.7

With the three-hour Gulf lag at the Barracudas, he could have good early-incoming water first thing in the morning; then drop back to the Snipes on the West side of Turkey Basin; then Mud Keys, Harbor Keys, Bay Keys, Mule-and-Archer for the long shot on permit, and home; presumably, with a trophy for Olie Slatt to snow his neighbors with.

With that settled, Skelton began to fall out of love. He looked into the street and watched a chromed, rusting Chrysler Imperial glide by, and thought: How terribly depressing. Such an Imperial might rut its lust upon a Dodge Coronet, jetting transmission fluid into our roadway.

“The sun just doesn’t half seem to want to come up,” he said to the man down the counter, his spirit sinking quick.

“No, sure don’t,” said the man with a chuckle and holding his breath in case he should need to go on. The waitress said to Skelton, “You want to buy a Studebaker?”

“No. But thanks for asking.”

“Huh?”

Skelton’s hand, resting in his lap, began to feel for the boat keys; and not discovering them immediately he jumped to his feet and slapped at his pockets, quickly finding them. He sat down again.

It was time to head for the dock. The bill came to $1.40. Skelton had a twenty; he tucked it with the check under his coffee cup. The waitress came up.

“That’s good,” he said.

“I don’t get it.”

“Isn’t that enough for you?”

Skelton dug in his mouth with his fork and pried out the loose gold inlay, which he set upon the twenty and the check which enumerated French toast and coffee.

“Tell me when you’ve got enough,” he said.

“I’ve got enough,” she said.

“I can’t hear you.”

“I’ve got enough,” she said, somewhat louder. She was as white as the powdered jelly bismarcks behind her. There was something that Skelton was tired of.

“Who was that masked man?” asked the customer who had slid Skelton the sugar.

“I think he’s a guide.”

“He’s not right in the noggin.”

“You can say that again.”

“He’s not right in the noggin.”

“Ha-ha!”

The waitress liked to laugh; she sidled down the counter with half a mind to divvy up the inlay. She thought the customer was a real scream.

* * *

“My man here?”

“Not yet,” said Carter. Skelton climbed into the skiff and stowed the lunch. “Cart, grab me a block of ice, would you.” Carter brought the block in the tongs and swung it down from the dock; Skelton got the handle and eased the ice into the insulated box. It was too high. Carter handed him the ice pick and he chipped away, ice splintering and flying all over, until the lid would close. He tore the soft drinks from their cardboard and arrayed them around the ice block.