Daniel Gumbiner - The Boatbuilder

It was Friday and Berg had stopped in to pick up some groceries for the weekend: a six-pack of beer, onions, bacon, some yogurt. He had a headache coming on, but it hadn’t gotten bad yet. After he exited the store, he paused by the entrance to wedge the groceries into his backpack. He had to take the beers out of their package and stuff them individually in the backpack to get everything to fit. As he was doing this, someone called to him. He turned to see Woody, who was standing next to a newspaper rack, holding a blue package of cookies. He was short man, with black eyes and a curved red nose, like a turkey vulture.

“You’re new around here,” he said to Berg. “You want a cookie?”

“Sure,” Berg said, swinging his backpack onto his shoulder.

“I’ve seen you at the Tavern before.”

“Yeah, I remember you,” Berg said.

“Woody Taglione,” he said, holding out the package of cookies to Berg. “You’ll see me around. I work all over town. Do a bit of everything. Ranching, construction, plumbing, diplomacy. By the way, you need a job? I know some guys that are trimming.”

“No, I’ve got a job,” Berg said, taking one of the cookies.

“Oh, okay. You come find me if you’re looking. I live just over the road with my girl. Didn’t grow up here, though. From Brooklyn originally. Greenpoint. Came out west in the ’60s. Then I lived on a beach in Kauai for a few years. It was nice. Made jewelry, did acid about five hundred times. Hey, you wanna see something cool?”

“I guess.”

“I’m not gonna show you unless you really want to see it.”

“I want to see it.”

“Like only if you really, really want to see it,” he said, squinting at Berg.

“I do. I really want to see it,” Berg said. And then he added: “Badly.”

“Okay,” Woody sighed. “If you insist.”

Berg followed Woody down Main Street, backpack full of groceries, headache still there, stalking him, biding its time. They walked along 12, past the gift stores and the diner, and past the hill that had a small cross on it and the sign that said CROSSONAHILL.NET. The sun was a couple hours from setting, the weather still warm, the crickets louder than the frogs. At the point where 12 crossed Sausal Creek, Woody turned off the road and scrambled down a gully toward the water.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to murder you,” he said. “Woulda done it by now if I was gonna murder you.”

The creek down here was muddy and sluggish, thick with decaying leaves. On its banks were beer cans and candy wrappers and cigarette butts, a few tires and an orange cone. Woody brought Berg over to a manhole.

“I found this the other day when I was following a deer,” he said. “This is probably from when the town was farther north, before the fire in the ’50s.” He opened the manhole and began climbing down its ladder, disappearing into the darkness. “Now,” he called from below, his voice echoing slightly, “once you get to the fifth rung, you’re going to have to leap to the left to avoid falling down this hole that leads to… well, I don’t know where it leads to. Can’t see it. But my point is that you want to jump to the left to avoid it. You got it?”

“I don’t know…”

“Oh, it’s safe. It’s safe, man.”

Berg climbed down the ladder until his hands were on the fifth rung. Directly below him was pitch-blackness but to his left he could see the outline of Woody’s body. He jumped toward Woody and landed with one foot on Woody’s ankle.

“Motherfuck,” he said. “That’s my bad ankle, man.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You know how I hurt this ankle?”

“No.”

“Do you want to know?”

“I guess.”

“I’m not gonna tell you unless you really want to know.”

“I really want to know.”

“Pickup basketball game at the rec center. Ted Burlington went and made a crossover and I fell sideways.”

“That seems pretty common.”

“I didn’t say I’d hurt it in an uncommon way, did I?”

Woody pulled out a flashlight and trundled into the darkness. Berg had to hunch in order to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling but Woody was able to stand straight up. The air smelled like wet cement and garbage and rust. All around were sounds of dripping water, hollow and echoing. Berg could feel his headache getting worse, something about the air pressure or the smells down here. He took a bottle of ibuprofen from his bag and popped several pills, swallowed them without water.

After some time they arrived at a cavernous opening. Through the blackness Berg could make out the shape of several full-size, papier-mâché bodies. They were strung up by wire, hanging from the ceiling, slowly rotating in the air. Woody shined the flashlight on them one by one. Some of the bodies were grimacing and some were smiling. One appeared to be singing opera.

“You and me and whatever freak made these are the only people in the world who know about this,” Woody said.

“I need to get out of here,” Berg said.

“Wait, hang on a second,” Woody said, lighting a cigarette. “Ain’t we gonna drink those beers?”

ONE DAY GARRETT ASKED Berg to help him drop off Vespucci’s father’s canoe at the local boatbuilder’s shop. They loaded it onto the roof of his truck and drove north along the bay. It was autumn now and the grass that had been kept green by the summer fog had turned brown. Everything seemed brown: brown buildings, brown trees, brown cows. They listened to the local radio station as they drove, WMUR. The DJ was announcing different community events that week.

“Folks are needed on Sunday to help weed a patch of grass in the commons,” he said. “Lot of weeds in the grass. Please help if you are able.”

When they pulled up the driveway, Berg immediately recognized the house as one of the places he’d broken into. Down to the left was the old farmhouse he’d entered and, up to the right, there were two large barns. In the distance, behind the barns, Berg could make out what looked like a blue school bus. He didn’t remember that school bus being here when he’d entered the farmhouse. He was staring at it, straining to remember whether he’d seen it before, when he realized that Garrett was saying his name.

“Dude,” Garrett said. “Look alive. C’mon, let’s go.”

“Sorry… I just… I thought I might have been here before.”

“You know Alejandro?”

“Who?”

“Alejandro Vega,” Garrett said. “The boatbuilder.”

“What? No.”

“Or Uffa? You go to one of his bus shows some time?”

“Bus shows?”

“Yeah, he has musicians come and play on his bus. I went one night. Got totally shadracked. Stumbled home at 4 a.m.”

“No, I’ve never been to one of those.”

“Oh, well I can’t say I recommend it. Bunch of freaks.”

Instead of walking over to the farmhouse, Garrett led Berg up a short trail toward one of the old barns. A young man with a ponytail was standing by the door, smoking a spliff. He was wearing purple sweatpants, a purple sweatshirt, basketball shoes, and a fanny pack.

“What’s up, Uffa?” Garrett said.

“’Sup, Garrett.”

“This is Berg,” Garrett said.

“Hi Berg.”

“Sorry it took so long to get you this boat,” Garrett said. “Lots of bullshit happening. I won’t go into it. Is Alejandro around?”

“Yeah, he’s here but he’s busy working. JC wants two new boats.”

“How many have you built for him now?”

“I’ve lost count.”

“You know, I’ve still never met that guy. Very mysterious.”

“He’s a good client,” Uffa said.

“People say he’s nuts. I mean, I’ve never met him so I don’t know, but that’s what people say.”