Percival Everett - Suder

We cruise through the Sound and head three or four miles out. We drop in a couple of lines and just sorta set back and take it easy. The sun is bright and the breeze is good and I get relaxed. I start to drift off into sleep.

“I got one!” Sid says, sitting up straight.

I sit up and see his taut line and then this fish shows himself. “Look at the size of that baby,” I says.

“Yeah, that’s a nice-sized one. Nice size.” He lowers his rod and lets the fish run.

I’m standing up and walking around in back of Sid. “Look at that sucker go.”

The line stops feeding out and Sid pulls up on the rod and starts reeling him in. The line becomes really taut again and Sid points the tip of the rod at the fish once more. “You gotta play him right, boy.” He pulls his face across his shoulder. “Do me a favor, Craig, and wipe the sweat off my head.”

I am looking for something to wipe his head with. “What do you want me to use?”

“Take the rag out of my back pocket.” He starts reeling the fish in again. “The sweat’s real annoying.”

I pull the rag across that shiny dome of his. “There you go.”

A half hour passes with me periodically wiping the sweat off his top. He’s letting the fish run again and he looks up at me.

“Boy, I’m tired,” Sid says. “Take this thing while he’s running. He’s weakening, I can tell.”

I take the rod and reel and his seat and he takes to wiping perspiration from his face and head. “Play him, boy,” he says as I start reeling. He ducks down into the cabin and comes up with a bottle of bourbon. “Play him, Craig.” He moves behind me. “That’s it, bring him in.”

I continue to reel him in.

“That line’s looking mighty hard. Maybe you should let him out some.” I push the button and point the rod down and the fish takes off. “My hands are getting real sweaty,” I says to Sid.

He doesn’t answer.

I start reeling again. “My hands,” I says.

“That’s it, reel him in.” He takes a swig from the bottle. “Let him out again.”

I forget to push the button and I point the tip of the rod at the fish and the whole works is ripped right out of my hands. I close my eyes.

“Damn shame,” says Sid and he walks away and down into the cabin.

I sit there for a long while, just looking at the ocean.

We’re starting to lose daylight as we pull into the dock. I hop out of the boat and tie it up. Sid is standing on deck, taking a swig from his bottle of bourbon.

“I’ve got something I want you to hear,” I says.

“Yeah?” He screws the cap onto his bottle. “What is it?”

“I’ll get it. Hold on.” I go down into the cabin and come up with my phonograph and my record. I’m looking around for an outlet and then I look at Sid.

Sid points to the base of a lamp on the pier.

I jump off the boat and plug in the machine and play the record.

“That’s real pretty,” Sid says. “Who is it?”

“This is Charlie Parker.” I smile.

“Yeah, that’s real pretty.” He looks at the lights around. “What do you say we go scout out some women?”

I pick the needle up off the record and I’m really pleased that he likes it. “Where do you want to go?”

“There’re a couple of bars around here.”

“Sure. Let me get my horn.” I run into the cabin and grab my saxophone. I pick up my phonograph and record and we walk away from the boat.

“You need to carry all that shit?” Sid wants to know.

“Yeah.”

We walk along the waterfront until we come to this little tavern. There ain’t many people inside and we grab a couple of stools. I put my things on the bar and the bartender tells me I have to move it all. I put my phonograph and record on the floor and I hold my horn in my lap. We down a couple of beers and the place starts to fill up.

This guy hops on a stool in the middle of the floor and he’s holding a guitar. He starts to playing and singing, but what he’s playing ain’t nothing like Charlie Parker.

“Craig,” Sid says, “if you just gonna keep that horn in your lap, it’s about as useful as tits on a boar hog.” He pauses. “If you ask me.”

I don’t say anything. I just look back at the fella singing. I pick my saxophone up out of my lap and walk over to the singer. I stand there right in front of him and he stops in the middle of a song.

“Yeah?” he asks.

“You know ‘Ornithology’?”

“No, who’s it by?”

“Charlie Parker.”

He looks at me, puzzled-like.

“Charlie Parker, the saxophone player.”

“I don’t know him or the song.”

“I’ll play it for you.” I walk to where Sid is sitting. People in the tavern are grumbling: “Hey, what happened to the music?” “What’s the story here?” “Let’s have a song!”

“What you doing, boy?” Sid asks.

“I’m gonna play the song for him.” I pick up my phonograph and record off the floor. I walk back to the middle of the floor and I’m looking around for an outlet.

“Hey, friend,” the singer says, “why don’t you wait until I finish this set? I’ll listen to it then.”

“Well, I don’t see an outlet. I guess I’ll just have to play it on my horn.” I put the mouthpiece to my lips and start blowing. I’m making a lot of honking sounds.

“Somebody make that drunk sit down!” someone shouts.

“Take that weapon away from him,” says another.

The singer pulls on my arm. “You’re upsetting everybody.”

I stop playing and look into all the faces, annoyed and angry faces. I take my things and walk back to the bar.

Sid slaps my back. “That was pitiful.”

The bartender puts a beer in front of me. “Ain’t you Craig Suder?” he asks.

I look at him for a long second and then I get up and walk out of the place.

Sid follows me out. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

Sid slaps me on the shoulder with the back of his hand as two women thick with makeup walk past us into the bar. “You see the way she looked at me?”

“No.”

“She’s got eyes for me.”

“You’re imagining things. Let’s go.”

“No, no, I’ve got to check this out.” Sid starts back into the bar. “Come on.”

“You go on. I think I’ll head back to the boat.”

“Suit yourself.” He disappears into the tavern.

The whole house felt like it was shaking. I crawled over Martin and his bed to the window and saw a big truck parked out front.

“What is it?” Martin asked, sitting up in bed.

“A truck.” I slid into my slippers and ran downstairs.

Ma was standing at the open door in her coat, rubbing a dish towel over her hands.

“What is it?” I asked and I looked out into the yard and saw Daddy approaching the truck from his office. I ran out into the yard. “Daddy, what is it?”

Martin was out of the house now in pants and tee-shirt.

The men from the truck were pulling a great big piano out and down the ramp.

“What’s the piano for?” Martin asked.

“It’s Mr. Powell’s,” Daddy said. “He’s going to be staying with us for a while.”

“Why?” Martin asked.

Daddy watched the piano move past us toward the house. “He’s taking a little rest here.” Daddy turned and walked back to his office.

Martin and I watched as the movers removed the legs of the piano and slipped it into the house. The big grand piano took up most of the living room and we had to detour clean around it to get to the stairs.

Martin and I sat on the stairs, looking down at the piano. “Pretty neat, huh?” I said.

Martin didn’t say anything.

“You don’t like Mr. Powell, do you?”

“I like him okay.”

Ma came into the living room and started polishing the piano.