Daniel Gumbiner - The Boatbuilder

“I was a big fan of Six Flags back in the day,” Woody said. “Big, big fan. Addicted, some would have said, no doubt, but look at me now: do you see me at Six Flags these days? No. So I think… What I’m trying to say is I was not addicted. I have a passion for the place. That I will grant you.”

Woody often spoke about his friend Leonard, although Berg had yet to meet him. He claimed that they were going to make a documentary about Leonard’s family for Shark Week this year.

“Leonard has been saying that every year since Shark Week started,” Claudette said. “Which was like, what, 1994?”

“Doesn’t mean this year won’t be the year,” Woody said. “Leonard thinks it will. I think so, too.”

“Leonard’s father is Sharkman,” Claudette explained to Berg.

“Who?” Berg said.

“You don’t know who Sharkman is?” Woody exclaimed. “Sharkman!” he said, and raised his eyebrows at Berg.

“I don’t know who that is,” Berg said.

“Sharkman is a guy who studies great white sharks out at the Slide Islands,” Claudette said. “Been doing it for many years. He’s famous around the county because he has survived over three shark attacks.”

“Some say he himself is a shark,” Woody added.

“He uses a piece of rug cut out to look like a seal to lure the sharks toward his boat,” Claudette said. “When he was younger he would swim around out there but then he got attacked three times so he stopped that.”

“He’s getting honored at the annual Dance Palace thing this year,” Woody said. “He’s almost retired. I want to go but I’ve been unofficially banned from the event.”

“What about your ban is unofficial?” Claudette asked.

“I haven’t signed a contract.”

“You don’t need to sign a contract. They banned you,” Claudette said. Then she turned to Berg: “Last year Woody got too drunk at the Dance Palace award ceremony and grabbed the mic and started lecturing everyone about how there are aliens living among us.”

“A lot of people agreed with me, for the record. They came up to me afterward and said, ‘Woody, I found your comments sensible and instructive.’”

“The problem was more with the yelling and the profanity,” Claudette said.

“Well, people need to wake up,” Woody said. “People need to open their eyes.”

ONE EVENING, BERG AND Uffa were sitting on Woody’s porch drinking beer and Berg mentioned that he was still working at Fernwood two days a week.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you worked there,” Woody said. “You said you were doing maintenance so I assumed you were down at Vlasic’s Boat Yard.”

“No, Fernwood.”

“So you know Garrett then?” Woody said.

“Yeah, how do you know him?”

“He used to work at the restaurant with Claudette. He was one of the shuckers but then he sliced open his hand real bad. Or maybe he sliced someone else’s hand? I can’t remember. Someone was sliced. Anyway Conotic fired him.”

Woody asked Berg if he would talk to Garrett about getting him some work.

“You think they’d hire me?” Woody said. “I know they’ve got a ton of money up there. I’ll do whatever, man. Ask Diego. I’m not picky. I’ll wax the boss’s car, whatever. Detail that shit. I don’t care.”

Berg meant to talk to Garrett about Woody the following day, but he didn’t have time before their charter began. It was an early-morning trip, an ash-scattering out by Horse Island. The client was a winemaker from Napa named George Wagner. He was in his fifties and he was accompanied by his wife and two children. The whole time they motored toward the island, George Wagner talked about how much his mother loved Horse Island. She’d grown up in Muire County, in Western Valley, and she’d sailed on the bay as a young girl. Garrett asked a lot of questions about the mother as they motored. This was something he would never do on a trip that was not an ash-scattering, but he was very respectful during ash-scatterings. He took an interest in the deceased and he rang a solemn bell seven times when the ashes were poured over the gunwales, always on the leeward side, to prevent the ashes from blowing back into the client’s face. Berg found this side of Garrett endearing and, in a strange way, he looked forward to ash-scatterings.

But today, Garrett had fucked up. As they neared Horse Island, Garrett said what he always said, which was: “Let me know when and where you’d like to begin the ceremony for your mother.”

Unfortunately, it was not the man’s mother who had died. It was his sister. Garrett blanched when he learned this and remained silent for the rest of the charter. When they got back to the dock, Garrett checked the text message Mangini had sent him about the charter, hoping to find that Mangini was responsible for the mistake and not him, but the information was clear:

“Horse Island Charter. Dock time: 11:00 a.m. Four passengers. Client name: Wagner. Ash-scattering for client’s sister, Jane Englander.”

After Berg and Simon finished putting the boat to bed, Berg walked over to Garrett’s office. He found him squeezing a stress ball, flipping through a motorcycle parts catalogue. On his desk were timesheets and paper coffee cups and a book called How to Win Every Argument.

“Do you think I’m a bad person?” Garrett said, the moment Berg walked into his office. “Am I bad?”

“What?”

“You know what I mean, Berg,” Garrett said. He had yet to look up from the motorcycle parts catalogue.

“Are you talking about that charter?” Berg said. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Garrett. Everyone messes up.”

“When I was thirteen I stole a pager from the Circuit City in Pine Gulch,” Garrett said. “Does that change your opinion?” He was looking at Berg now.

“A pager?”

“When I was fourteen I convinced my little sister that my mom was going to give her up for adoption. Send her to Thailand. Then, when I was fifteen, I pantsed this kid in front of the whole class. His name was JBaum. Well that was his nickname. He was the easiest target. Everyone went after him. Had this skinny little body and this really big head. A few days later I started a rumor that JBaum was having a party and I looked up his address in the directory and put it on a bunch of fliers and plastered them around school.”

“Did people go to his house?”

“Some, yes, and his father turned them away at the door. Or so I’m told. I didn’t go.”

“Where is JBaum now?”

“He’s around. Pours concrete with Freddie Moltisanti.”

“Who?”

“The kid who lived in a cave. But the point is that JBaum and I never talked about it. And I imagine he still hates my guts. And I was thinking, when I saw these school shootings happening, I was thinking: I’m the guy that would’ve teased the shooter. I’m the guy that would’ve driven him over the edge and the first guy he’d come looking for when he barged into the school.”

“Just because you teased someone doesn’t mean you deserve to get shot…”

“I get to thinking about death sometimes, you know? Like, what will it be like? When I’m there, lying in some hospital bed, waiting to leave the world. Or I’ve got a bullet in my gut. Or I’m drowning in the bay, choking on salt water. I don’t believe in God. Used to, but don’t anymore. My mom believed in God till the day she died. That’s how she explained all the shitty things my dad would do. ‘The Lord has a plan for us,’ she would say and I would think: the Lord is really planning things poorly. This is the best plan the Lord came up with? Why didn’t the Lord just have us win the lottery? Well, we did try and win the lottery. Bought Scratchers like every weekend. But you see what I’m saying? I just couldn’t make it fit together. I lost God and he never came back—or she—I know you’re one of these politically correct guys. You probably think God could’ve been a woman. I’ve heard these theories. It seems unlikely to me, but what do I know? The point is that I’ll get to thinking about death and the possibility that there’s nothing beyond this world and I’ll wonder, What did I do with my time? Why did I ever cause anyone pain? But I have, and I continue to, even when I don’t mean to, like today, with that charter… I feel badly about that charter… You can’t tell Mangini what happened. I hope they don’t report it to Mangini.”