The world don't have a good future
Nick Hilbourn
Purple Thunder
Denniger kept his underwear and the vest. His brother’s fishing vest. The most expensive and heaviest of the items. He’d sworn to himself privately that he would hold it until the last, but a light spasm in his wrist caused his grip to loosen. He coughed and a sharp cry escaped him. His fingers frantically pulled for it and water gathered in the vacuum of his palm. His gaze followed the vest as it slowly shrank, seawater gathering around it to mask its fluorescent colors, until it was completely extinguished.
A deep sadness came over him after that.
It occurred to him that he must have gone out quite far by now. His legs incessantly kicking. Waves like tongues, lapping the back of his neck, swallowing themselves every second. He tilted his head toward the sky, taking short breaks to rest. Just ten seconds floating underwater before returning to the surface. At the beginning he had timed his plunges for every fifteen minutes. That slowly shrunk to ten minutes, five, two. Then, seconds.
His watch grew too heavy at one point and he had to let it go. Watched it evaporate in the murky water. Ten seconds was enough though. He came up without much difficulty. The watch was a gift from a friend. Dead five years now. An inscription on the back. He wouldn’t worry about it right now. There would be time in the future for that, he thought.
Sharks weren’t a concern. Sting rays were a less distant possibility, but with a little awareness he was sure that he could avoid brushing against any. Piranhas were out of the question. Certainly not. As he had read, they were even more unlikely than sharks.
He dipped below the water again. Fifteen seconds below the surface that time. He was sure.
His legs had felt very heavy coming up. I can’t do this much longer, he thought, and if I go under again I’m going to keep dropping. That there were consequences to such an act wasn’t a concern to him by that point. Or he else was ignoring them or rudely simplifying them (“I would just keep floating is all…”). He briefly thought about dropping though. The feeling of weightlessness. Then, he’d think about the watch. Possibly even find it on the way down.
Something moved.
A small dot balancing on the surface of the water.
A white speck. Far in front of him.
A point growing larger and larger.
The speck could be his imagination. But the larger it became the more it transformed. Stretched itself out into shapes. Soon it resembled a boat. White, a small white houseboat. He yelled and waved one hand quickly as the boat came closer. Kicking harder with his legs to maintain visibility. At first, Denniger didn’t feel he’d been noticed. But then, the boat circled around toward him.
The side of it had a purple lightning bolt with “Blue Thunder” written inside it and outlined in deep blue. The pilot was an older, pot-bellied man wearing a bucket hat, grey t-shirt and blue swimming trunks. Fresh stubble but otherwise clean-looking. He stopped the boat and let it float meditatively in front of Denniger. The pot-bellied man stood at the helm with one fist on his hip. Denniger couldn’t see his eyes, but he seemed to be staring at him.
"Hello there. Seem to’ve got yourself in a pickle!"
"Yes! Yes sir!” Denniger spit words out spastically as his mouth consistently below the surface. “Thank God! You found me! I thought! I was going! To die out here!"
"Well, you don’t have to." The pot-bellied man had a sardonic tone to his voice that seemed to convey familiarity. It made Denniger uncomfortable. The man spoke as if he knew him, but Denniger was sure he didn’t. Was this some sign that he wouldn’t help him? Or did the man just speak that way: as if he knew everybody.
"Could you! Pull me! Aboard? I lost my boat! It sank!"
"Boat sank? A hole?"
"I guess… I’m! Not sure! My radio’s…gone!” Denniger paused, taking a moment to collect his breath. His chin dipping in and out of the water. “Out please!” he said and tried to look directly at the man, but the sun made him into a silhouette and Denniger winced. He sped his legs at a rapid pace to keep himself above the surface “Please pull me aboard! Please, sir!”
"Well…hold on…I’ve heard about these schemes. Pirates. How do I know you’re not one of them?" Denniger dipped below the surface for ten seconds. He popped back up and saw the man’s gaze hadn’t broken.
"I’m not! A pirate! Please. Sir. Just had some. Bad luck. If you…could…pull me aboard, please! I’m getting tired. I don’t know. Animals out here..."
"Ain’t nothing too bad out here." The man gestured loosely with his index finger. Pointing nowhere in particular. Again, it felt like he was speaking with some unsettling familiarity.
"Sir, I can’t! Can’t do this much longer!"
"Sure can’t."
"Please pull me aboard!" Denniger dipped below the surface. He didn’t count how long he was underwater Just that his legs were much heavier coming up. His kicks were more infrequent. Tilting his head so his mouth was above the surface and he didn’t have to kick as hard.
"I still don’t know…"
"What do I. Have to do. To prove to you?!" A small wave lifted Denniger up. Water washed over his lips. He looked straight up again, trying to keep his face above water. Some sea water snuck in and he responded with heavy coughing. Struggling to stay above the surface as he did so. He feared dropping below to rest now. Nervous about whether he would be able to come back up.
"You alright?" He wasn’t smiling. Not smirking. And not grimacing.
"No! Please, sir! Help me!"
"You have to understand my position. You’re a pirate and I’m dead for sure. I’ve got a boatload of expensive stuff up here and I’m not in to having my day ruined by ending up in the same situation you’re in."
"I swear! I’m not a pirate!"
"Swear…”
“Swear!”
“…you saved?"
"What?"
"Saved. By Christ?"
"What?!"
"Can you answer my question?"
"Yes…yes, I am! I’m Christian! Please…"
"How do I know you’re not just pulling my leg?"
"I’m not. I swear!"
"‘Swear’…alright. I’ll trust you." The pot-bellied man tossed him a life preserver. Denniger clasped onto it with an iron grip and dog paddled toward the boat. Chin still pointed straight up. “Blue Thunder” drew closer. He saw now where the purple paint was scratched. The blue outline peeling. He carefully climbed up a ladder. His arms and legs were so enervated that he had to loop them around each rung to keep from sliding off as he climbed. Yet, he also tried to convey no sense of hesitation or fear to the pot-bellied man. He wanted to vomit, but he feared what the pot-bellied man would think. Perhaps he would think that it was part of it. That Denniger was a professional scam artist with the uncanny ability to vomit on command.
Unmarked Grave
Denniger collapsed over the boat’s side and onto its floor. He heard his body’s thump. A fire burned in all of his muscles. The floor was unsteady. It felt as if he was being lifted skyward, his awareness pulsing in and out of his body. His fingers numb. Then, he heard the boat’s engine fire up. His body vibrated and the pulsing softened. Feeling returned to his fingers and brought with it the texture of the wood floor beneath him.
"Thank you…" he mumbled, tiredly. A laugh resting in his gut. He took a deep breath. Stuttering an exhale. Pushed himself carefully into a sitting position. He still felt nausea trying to rise and he swallowed hard to push it back down. He gazed sleepily at what he thought was the helm. It was empty. "Hello?"
"Stay where you are.” A voice behind him. Coming from the front of the boat. Denniger pivoted his body and saw the pot-bellied man holding a small gun in his hand.
"What…what?"
"I ain’t gonna kill you. I’m just gonna ensure that you were telling the truth."
"I was. I absolutely was. Sir, my boat…it’s at the bottom of the ocean by now, or getting there at least. I-" Denniger stopped and glanced to his right. The water was empty. His boat was gone. The place where it had sunk long passed. An unmarked grave, he thought. The pot-bellied man nodded.
"Just stay still."
"Sir, I think I need to call –”
"Who? Who do you need to call?”
“Coast guard.” The pot-bellied man motioned with his gun. “Move,” he grunted. Denniger scooted backward into a lawn chair. “Sit.” Lopping his arms over the chair, he managed to pull himself into it with his body on its side in a slightly extended fetal position. His limbs dripping from the chair like taffy.
The pot-bellied man nodded as if pleased and pulled another lawn chair from the opposite side of the boat. The man put the lawn chair beside Denniger, while keeping the gun fixed on him. His legs and arms were itching now. He could feel strength returning to them. "It’s on autopilot."
"What?"
"Autopilot…I only got to take over to dock it.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. I’ve heard of that.”
“You don’t know much about boats, do you? Hmm?”
“No sir, I don’t. I don’t know anything about boats.” A concentrated stare in the pot-bellied man’s eyes bore fatigue or puzzlement. As if some thought constantly hounded him, but he was ignoring it in order to focus on the drowning man that he’d pulled aboard. He glanced back at the empty helm, then returned his attention to Denniger.
“It’s going to the shoreline at Charleston. That where you came from?" It barely sounded like a question. Like the man didn’t care whether he answered or not. It occurred to Denniger that the man might just throw him back overboard because he’d failed to provide whatever amusement, distraction or answer that he’d been seeking to the thought dogging him.
"I came a bit north from the marina at Capahee Sound."
"Capahee…ah, Capahee. That’s all private harbors. Rich man. Brother had something there, but he sold it when he retired. Probably bought the house with it. Shit ton of money there." Denniger shook his head. Scouring his mind for details of his personal life to prove himself. Not wanting to let too much silence grow between him and the man.
"My brother’s a rich guy, too. I brought my boat in Hartsville to fish down here with him. Just bought it. I come down here every summer with my brother, but this is the first time by myself. It was a new boat. My brother has a spot at Capahee…but, like I said, I only learned enough about boats to get by.”
"Hartsville...eh, over there in the Pee Dee? That’s waaaay inland."
"Yes sir, it is. Two and a half hours or so." The pot-bellied man grunted approvingly.
"Well, not no more…and you don’t even know what autopilot is?" He said “autopilot” strangely. Like it was from a different language.
“No.” Denniger shrugged. He actually did, although he’d never heard of it on boats. By now, he was scared to contradict any notion the pot-bellied man had of him as completely naïve of anything to do with boats. He wanted to be simple to comprehend, two-dimensional.
"I don’t mean to do this to you, but I just gotta be sure. I’m rather careful after the attacks down in Florida."
"Where?"
"Florida. Near the Keys. Fellas, I don’t know what kind they are, ravaged about twenty boats. Killed almost everybody aboard. Even a few of the families on there with nothing but lunch on board. Frustration, I guess. But killed their children, too. It was on the news all yesterday. Can’t believe you didn’t hear it.” The man told him these things as if he’d memorized them. Perhaps that was what he was stewing on. “Same thing out west in New Mexico. Drug dealer crashed this helicopter.” The man paused and took out his phone, swiping furiously on the screen with his finger. “Something like that. Drug dealers. Big crash out in the desert. Police found out last week.” Denniger shook his head. He thought he had heard something about that, but he wasn’t sure. The man shrugged and put the phone back in his pocket. It was better to be a full idiot, he thought. Better to be completely something than nothing right now. “I tell ya…the world don’t have a good future ahead of it.”
“Yes sir,” said Denniger, gripping the plastic arm rests of the lawn chair.
“If that’s the way we let people treat us...” He slurred a bit on the “r”, Denniger thought. There was a red cooler under the pot-bellied man’s lawn chair. Several scrunched cans of Milwaukee’s Best. Denniger quickly looked away. Not wanting the man to think he was staring. He wondered if that’s where the familiar affect in the man’s voice had come from.
“I hadn’t heard of that, but it sounds like a terrible thing," said Denniger, crisply enunciating his words. Hoping this might sober the man up. Open up a caveat of reasons in an otherwise unpredictable scenario. He suddenly thought of his phone. In the pocket of his shorts that he’d let float to the bottom of the water. His brother might be calling. He was supposed to meet him for an early dinner. What time was it anyway? It must be close to five o’clock by now.
"The whole lot of it isn’t Christian. You’re a Christian you said, right?" Denniger nodded his head. Mind still buzzing from the ocean. He hadn’t heard the question. His neck tensed. Jostling words around in his mouth to answer, he couldn’t seem to get them out fast enough.
“Uh, I…I’m sorry I didn’t hear…could you say that again?” The man glared at him. The heel of his right foot nudged one of the cans. Denniger glanced at the cans then turned back.
“I said…Christian. Are you a Christian?”
"Yes, I am."
"Ain’t Christian."
"No, sure isn’t."
"That’s why I asked you that question. I had to see how you’d answer. I would’ve been able to tell if you were lyin’. I just can. You have to. Tell who the animals and who the humans are. You know?” Derringer nodded. “So, what were you fishing for?"
"I don’t know. I’ve only been coming here a couple of years. My brother always took me out before and…well…just fooling around, I guess."
"Well, you sure did. Fuckin boat tests to that…” The sentence drifted away. The pot-bellied man’s head looked to one side as if lost in thought or tired.
"Yes sir." The gun. Denniger glanced nervously at the gun in the pot-bellied man’s hand. "Sir, listen, I’m obviously not a pirate. Could you put the gun away please?" The pot-bellied man let his firearm drift downward slowly until it was at stomach-level. Then, thinking better of it, he held it erect again. Pointed it at Denniger’s head.
"You’re from Hartsville?"
"Yes."
"What do you do there?"
"I run a family business.”
“What?”
“It’s a…feed and hardware store. My father started it-"
"Feed and hardware?"
"Oh, uh…yeah, feed and hardware. Farm clothing, farm supplies, grains for animals. If you knew Hartsville, you’d know that’s pretty good business there because that’s all there is. Hartsville. McBee. Bishopville. Darlington. NASCAR track there.” Denniger paused to see if any of the names appeased the man. If it convinced him that he was like him. Incredibly like him. “That’s all it is," he said, speaking emphatically in order to cordon off any chance of his voice breaking. The pot-bellied man laughed, although Denniger wasn’t sure if he’d laughed at him or something that he’d thought of. Denniger wondered what his face looked like at that moment. The pot-bellied man lowered the gun and shook his head. The grip loosened and it seemed that he might drop it. But he only pointed it at the floor of the boat.
"I’m sorry. You know how it is." He chuckled at his own sentence. The joke, whatever it was, wouldn’t let him go.
"It’s alright, sir. I understand.” The tension in his neck lessened, although he still kept careful attention on the gun.
"Yeah…Herman Waterfield…from Moncks Corner..you know where that’s at?” Denniger nodded.
"Yeah. Moncks Corner. I know it. Yeah, of course. My name’s…I’m Denniger. Denniger Friedman. And I’m not an animal." Herman chuckled. Denniger felt his body coming to rest. The anxiety subsiding. He tried to stand up and failed. Placing his hands on the arm rests, he forced his way upright with a low grunt.
“You’re tame, at the very least,” he said as he stood. Legs wobbling a bit and then stabilizing. Derringer nodded.
“Potty trained,” he said.
“ ‘Potty trained’,” Herman repeated to himself, walking a circle around his chair. It seemed like he was waking himself up. One hand loosely on his hip as he walked. Tucked against his side like it was an old rag. “Denniger? That’s a helluva name." Herman stopped and organized his groin. Carefully, gently tugging in between his legs, while he continued to hold the gun.
"My parents were…well…my father was…creative. But my middle name is James. That’s my grandpa’s name on my mom’s side. Some people call me that.” Herman nodded slowly, looking out at the ocean and seeming to think on the choice. Then, he shrugged and clicked his tongue.
“Jesse James…”
“Ha! Yeah…my dad was into guns, I guess. That might’ve been where it comes from. Have a great great grandfather from Dillion, too. That was his name.” Denniger heard himself speaking and stopped. Worried that he was babbling.
“Denniger it is.”
“That’s a nice gun." Herman grinned and held the gun. In both hands, smoothing it with his free hand. His other hand still clasped the handle. But not desperate or fearful as before. Still, he didn’t want to let it go. He still held to it for some reason.
“Know anything about guns?”
“No sir, although I’ve been wanting to get into it, I guess.” Herman nodded and handed him the gun. Handle first. Denniger held open both hands. Unsure of how casual he should be. Herman laid the gun in the open table of Denniger’s palms, smirking at his overly-gallant manner in receiving the weapon.
“Think you would’ve considering your name.” Denniger laughed.
“Yeah, guess so. Think my father would’ve taught me or…” He stopped again. “…something…”
“Yep. Denniger. That’s a kind of gun name I think.” Herman sounded unsure of this statement. His hands slid over the gun and thought of his watch floating toward the bottom. The inscription there. It might be there for a thousand more years. Someday someone would find it and read that inscription. His eyes stung and he rubbed his face with his free hand. “Been getting into a lot of stuff these days. Got laid off this past week.” Denniger feigned sincere horror. Herman waved off the gesture and Denniger slowly dropped the expression and pretended to study the gun in his hand. In his head he was waiting for Herman to say that they were heading back to the shoreline, to say that he’d called the coast guard to look for his boat. He was waiting for the moment when he walked off Herman’s boat and called his brother to tell him what had happened. Maybe Herman would even let him borrow his phone.
“Out here doing some thinking. What can I do now, you know?” Herman’s voice quietened. He breathed more heavily. “That was twenty years…what’s after work, you know? I never thought of it.” He blinked rapidly. His eyes were glassy, but he looked away from Denniger. “No, never did. Wish I had.”
“What’d you do?” Herman sighed. He coughed and spit. His phlegm made a nearly perfect arc before hitting the water.
“Brass work,” he muttered. Denniger nodded, not pressing any further.
“Well, I’m sorry nonetheless.” Herman nodded briskly. Then, he cleared his throat and pointed to the gun.
“Well, take a look at it. I just got into it. Glock Nine…teen. Far as hand guns go, it ain’t bad. Good place to start. Least that’s what I read.” Denniger looked the gun over. Pretending he was studying it for later. But really, he felt a deep relief that the man no longer wanted to shoot him with it. He handed it back to Herman, who took it with a smile and winked at Denniger.
“Looks good.”
"Yeah, I ain’t that big a gun collector. Maybe like you and fishing. It’s just something I - shit!"
Herman’s boat jerked violently and threw him into a lawn chair shoulder first. He tried to catch himself from falling, squeezing the gun and firing a round in the process. Both he and the chair toppled over.
Dazed, he tried to stand, but the boat rocked so hard that he couldn’t get steady footing and fell again. Holding onto the edge of the boat, he jerked himself to his feet and saw a speedboat floating in the water. A slim, blue speedboat with a trail of debris leading between it and Herman’s boat. He saw a young, shirtless man inside of it climb to his feet. And two other shirtless friends behind him around the same age still sprawled on the floor. Twenty-somethings. Hairless chests. Moustaches and long sideburns. Herman’s whole body felt hot. His face was red and blustery. "Shit! What in the…the fuck are you doin you goddamn…fuckin…assholes!"
The speedboat’s interior had several empty beer cans on the floor. Herman gripped the edge of his boat with a free hand, mumbling as he walked along its perimeter. “Ignorant sons of bitches. Nearly fuckin killed. Probably some goddamn trust fund fuckers from Charleston. Where’s my goddamn phone? My leg feels like shit. I’m calling the coast guard. Denniger, you alright? Fuckin little shits! You hear me! Fuckin! Little! Shits! Goddammit, Denniger…would you…look in the helm…and hand me – OH MY GOD!” Denniger lied motionless on the floor, a small hole in his chest and a growing puddle of blood beneath him.
“Oh my God!” Herman hobbled across the deck toward the body. His arms held limply in front of him. The boat still rocking. Herman lost his balance and fell, slamming into the helm. He crawled to Denniger, grabbing his wrist and shaking it violently. The skin was still warm, but the feel of death was unmistakable. His hands retracted in horror, understanding what his mind was only beginning to comprehend. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod….” he said. He crawled away quickly as the blood puddle licked the edges of his Crocs. He stood and reached for the helm to steady himself, but the boat rocked and he fell again. “Shit!”
Herman now crawled on all fours. He felt sick. A palm brushed one of the cans. He brushed it away. “Fuck!” he screamed. He felt nauseous. The boat’s rocking was unbearable. He got to one knee and vomited a small puddle of clear liquid. He fell backwards, wiping his chin. He glanced at Denniger again, hoping that he would at least be squirming. Moaning.
Nothing.
Debris
Herman pressed his free hand against the floor of the boat and pushed himself to his knees. He felt unsteady, dizzy. His other hand was tensed and he noticed that it was still holding the gun. He pressed the muzzle against the floor hoping that it would orient him. Crawling on his knees, he pulled himself to the side of the boat, hugging it tightly. The three young men appeared to have recovered from the collision and they were uttering apologies and curses. Herman wasn’t sure if the men were talking to him or to each other. He pointed the gun at them and stood up, gripping the side of the boat firmly.
They stopped.
Stopped moving.
Stopped talking.
They stared at Herman. The one who had been at the helm opened his mouth to speak but lost the words. His mouth froze. Herman wasn’t really sure what he was doing, but he noticed that the dizziness retreated when he aimed the weapon. He no longer felt nauseous; rather, things returned as they had before. Calm and strong. Like when he’d spoken with Denniger. Or even before he’d met Denniger.
The one steering noticed the gun first and quickly put his hands up, while calling the attention of the other two. Within seconds, all their hands were straight up. Two large waves made both boats roll in unison, like the water was applauding. The trail of debris, a line of wooden fragments from Herman’s boat, held firm. An umbilical cord connecting the men.
"We’re sorry…" the steerer said, his voice trembling. Herman glanced around his boat as if he was in a dark room trying to find the light switch. Pointing the gun like a second pair of eyes. There was considerable damage to the hull and Herman saw that his boat was taking on water. He felt heat rising up his back and flushing his face
Worst of all was the fact that he’d not been given a choice. Something had gone ahead and decided for him that this would happen.
He breathed in deeply through his nose and sat down in his lawn chair with the gun pointed at the three young men. His eyes drooped. He thought, what kind of people were these? Should he ask? He looked at Denniger again. Herman wondered if the men knew he was sinking. If they did know, were they thinking about helping him? Or, were they thinking about how to get away? How to leave him here? How to forget that they’d ever seen him? His neck felt warm and his body felt heavy.
The steerer of the small boat once again uttered an apology, then looked at the other two dumbfounded. One of them had a phone pressed to his ear.
"Fucking pirates!" Herman yelled and fired his gun until he heard a dry click. After the clip emptied, he held the gun out until the smoke cleared.
He couldn’t see the three men anymore. The speedboat was still there. Floating on the water like a ghost. Herman dropped his arm. The gun slapped his thigh. His grip loosened and the Glock 19 clattered on the floor. So did Herman. Gently laying himself on his back, he closed his eyes. The boat’s rocking slowly dissipated. He was hearing the tongue of the water lapping at the two boats, unsure which one was which.
Things had ended badly but something else coming. Something big. An opening.
He listened to the water. A voice. He thought he heard a voice. A high, soaring cry. A blistering siren song. Herman concentrated on the reality of the sound. Worked toward translating it. Focused on how time and duty would come toward him like the angels did to all those people in the Old Testament. How they lifted humans up out of the earth and showed them where to step next and what to say and how to lead. Indiana Jones. That scene where he crosses that canyon on the invisible bridge. Herman closed his eyes. That whole scene flashed through his head. The siren got louder. Took on shape and form. Things appear. Suddenly and without warning.
Here it comes, he thought.
Yes, here it comes.
Nick Hilbourn
Purple Thunder
Denniger kept his underwear and the vest. His brother’s fishing vest. The most expensive and heaviest of the items. He’d sworn to himself privately that he would hold it until the last, but a light spasm in his wrist caused his grip to loosen. He coughed and a sharp cry escaped him. His fingers frantically pulled for it and water gathered in the vacuum of his palm. His gaze followed the vest as it slowly shrank, seawater gathering around it to mask its fluorescent colors, until it was completely extinguished.
A deep sadness came over him after that.
It occurred to him that he must have gone out quite far by now. His legs incessantly kicking. Waves like tongues, lapping the back of his neck, swallowing themselves every second. He tilted his head toward the sky, taking short breaks to rest. Just ten seconds floating underwater before returning to the surface. At the beginning he had timed his plunges for every fifteen minutes. That slowly shrunk to ten minutes, five, two. Then, seconds.
His watch grew too heavy at one point and he had to let it go. Watched it evaporate in the murky water. Ten seconds was enough though. He came up without much difficulty. The watch was a gift from a friend. Dead five years now. An inscription on the back. He wouldn’t worry about it right now. There would be time in the future for that, he thought.
Sharks weren’t a concern. Sting rays were a less distant possibility, but with a little awareness he was sure that he could avoid brushing against any. Piranhas were out of the question. Certainly not. As he had read, they were even more unlikely than sharks.
He dipped below the water again. Fifteen seconds below the surface that time. He was sure.
His legs had felt very heavy coming up. I can’t do this much longer, he thought, and if I go under again I’m going to keep dropping. That there were consequences to such an act wasn’t a concern to him by that point. Or he else was ignoring them or rudely simplifying them (“I would just keep floating is all…”). He briefly thought about dropping though. The feeling of weightlessness. Then, he’d think about the watch. Possibly even find it on the way down.
Something moved.
A small dot balancing on the surface of the water.
A white speck. Far in front of him.
A point growing larger and larger.
The speck could be his imagination. But the larger it became the more it transformed. Stretched itself out into shapes. Soon it resembled a boat. White, a small white houseboat. He yelled and waved one hand quickly as the boat came closer. Kicking harder with his legs to maintain visibility. At first, Denniger didn’t feel he’d been noticed. But then, the boat circled around toward him.
The side of it had a purple lightning bolt with “Blue Thunder” written inside it and outlined in deep blue. The pilot was an older, pot-bellied man wearing a bucket hat, grey t-shirt and blue swimming trunks. Fresh stubble but otherwise clean-looking. He stopped the boat and let it float meditatively in front of Denniger. The pot-bellied man stood at the helm with one fist on his hip. Denniger couldn’t see his eyes, but he seemed to be staring at him.
"Hello there. Seem to’ve got yourself in a pickle!"
"Yes! Yes sir!” Denniger spit words out spastically as his mouth consistently below the surface. “Thank God! You found me! I thought! I was going! To die out here!"
"Well, you don’t have to." The pot-bellied man had a sardonic tone to his voice that seemed to convey familiarity. It made Denniger uncomfortable. The man spoke as if he knew him, but Denniger was sure he didn’t. Was this some sign that he wouldn’t help him? Or did the man just speak that way: as if he knew everybody.
"Could you! Pull me! Aboard? I lost my boat! It sank!"
"Boat sank? A hole?"
"I guess… I’m! Not sure! My radio’s…gone!” Denniger paused, taking a moment to collect his breath. His chin dipping in and out of the water. “Out please!” he said and tried to look directly at the man, but the sun made him into a silhouette and Denniger winced. He sped his legs at a rapid pace to keep himself above the surface “Please pull me aboard! Please, sir!”
"Well…hold on…I’ve heard about these schemes. Pirates. How do I know you’re not one of them?" Denniger dipped below the surface for ten seconds. He popped back up and saw the man’s gaze hadn’t broken.
"I’m not! A pirate! Please. Sir. Just had some. Bad luck. If you…could…pull me aboard, please! I’m getting tired. I don’t know. Animals out here..."
"Ain’t nothing too bad out here." The man gestured loosely with his index finger. Pointing nowhere in particular. Again, it felt like he was speaking with some unsettling familiarity.
"Sir, I can’t! Can’t do this much longer!"
"Sure can’t."
"Please pull me aboard!" Denniger dipped below the surface. He didn’t count how long he was underwater Just that his legs were much heavier coming up. His kicks were more infrequent. Tilting his head so his mouth was above the surface and he didn’t have to kick as hard.
"I still don’t know…"
"What do I. Have to do. To prove to you?!" A small wave lifted Denniger up. Water washed over his lips. He looked straight up again, trying to keep his face above water. Some sea water snuck in and he responded with heavy coughing. Struggling to stay above the surface as he did so. He feared dropping below to rest now. Nervous about whether he would be able to come back up.
"You alright?" He wasn’t smiling. Not smirking. And not grimacing.
"No! Please, sir! Help me!"
"You have to understand my position. You’re a pirate and I’m dead for sure. I’ve got a boatload of expensive stuff up here and I’m not in to having my day ruined by ending up in the same situation you’re in."
"I swear! I’m not a pirate!"
"Swear…”
“Swear!”
“…you saved?"
"What?"
"Saved. By Christ?"
"What?!"
"Can you answer my question?"
"Yes…yes, I am! I’m Christian! Please…"
"How do I know you’re not just pulling my leg?"
"I’m not. I swear!"
"‘Swear’…alright. I’ll trust you." The pot-bellied man tossed him a life preserver. Denniger clasped onto it with an iron grip and dog paddled toward the boat. Chin still pointed straight up. “Blue Thunder” drew closer. He saw now where the purple paint was scratched. The blue outline peeling. He carefully climbed up a ladder. His arms and legs were so enervated that he had to loop them around each rung to keep from sliding off as he climbed. Yet, he also tried to convey no sense of hesitation or fear to the pot-bellied man. He wanted to vomit, but he feared what the pot-bellied man would think. Perhaps he would think that it was part of it. That Denniger was a professional scam artist with the uncanny ability to vomit on command.
Unmarked Grave
Denniger collapsed over the boat’s side and onto its floor. He heard his body’s thump. A fire burned in all of his muscles. The floor was unsteady. It felt as if he was being lifted skyward, his awareness pulsing in and out of his body. His fingers numb. Then, he heard the boat’s engine fire up. His body vibrated and the pulsing softened. Feeling returned to his fingers and brought with it the texture of the wood floor beneath him.
"Thank you…" he mumbled, tiredly. A laugh resting in his gut. He took a deep breath. Stuttering an exhale. Pushed himself carefully into a sitting position. He still felt nausea trying to rise and he swallowed hard to push it back down. He gazed sleepily at what he thought was the helm. It was empty. "Hello?"
"Stay where you are.” A voice behind him. Coming from the front of the boat. Denniger pivoted his body and saw the pot-bellied man holding a small gun in his hand.
"What…what?"
"I ain’t gonna kill you. I’m just gonna ensure that you were telling the truth."
"I was. I absolutely was. Sir, my boat…it’s at the bottom of the ocean by now, or getting there at least. I-" Denniger stopped and glanced to his right. The water was empty. His boat was gone. The place where it had sunk long passed. An unmarked grave, he thought. The pot-bellied man nodded.
"Just stay still."
"Sir, I think I need to call –”
"Who? Who do you need to call?”
“Coast guard.” The pot-bellied man motioned with his gun. “Move,” he grunted. Denniger scooted backward into a lawn chair. “Sit.” Lopping his arms over the chair, he managed to pull himself into it with his body on its side in a slightly extended fetal position. His limbs dripping from the chair like taffy.
The pot-bellied man nodded as if pleased and pulled another lawn chair from the opposite side of the boat. The man put the lawn chair beside Denniger, while keeping the gun fixed on him. His legs and arms were itching now. He could feel strength returning to them. "It’s on autopilot."
"What?"
"Autopilot…I only got to take over to dock it.”
“Oh. Yes, of course. I’ve heard of that.”
“You don’t know much about boats, do you? Hmm?”
“No sir, I don’t. I don’t know anything about boats.” A concentrated stare in the pot-bellied man’s eyes bore fatigue or puzzlement. As if some thought constantly hounded him, but he was ignoring it in order to focus on the drowning man that he’d pulled aboard. He glanced back at the empty helm, then returned his attention to Denniger.
“It’s going to the shoreline at Charleston. That where you came from?" It barely sounded like a question. Like the man didn’t care whether he answered or not. It occurred to Denniger that the man might just throw him back overboard because he’d failed to provide whatever amusement, distraction or answer that he’d been seeking to the thought dogging him.
"I came a bit north from the marina at Capahee Sound."
"Capahee…ah, Capahee. That’s all private harbors. Rich man. Brother had something there, but he sold it when he retired. Probably bought the house with it. Shit ton of money there." Denniger shook his head. Scouring his mind for details of his personal life to prove himself. Not wanting to let too much silence grow between him and the man.
"My brother’s a rich guy, too. I brought my boat in Hartsville to fish down here with him. Just bought it. I come down here every summer with my brother, but this is the first time by myself. It was a new boat. My brother has a spot at Capahee…but, like I said, I only learned enough about boats to get by.”
"Hartsville...eh, over there in the Pee Dee? That’s waaaay inland."
"Yes sir, it is. Two and a half hours or so." The pot-bellied man grunted approvingly.
"Well, not no more…and you don’t even know what autopilot is?" He said “autopilot” strangely. Like it was from a different language.
“No.” Denniger shrugged. He actually did, although he’d never heard of it on boats. By now, he was scared to contradict any notion the pot-bellied man had of him as completely naïve of anything to do with boats. He wanted to be simple to comprehend, two-dimensional.
"I don’t mean to do this to you, but I just gotta be sure. I’m rather careful after the attacks down in Florida."
"Where?"
"Florida. Near the Keys. Fellas, I don’t know what kind they are, ravaged about twenty boats. Killed almost everybody aboard. Even a few of the families on there with nothing but lunch on board. Frustration, I guess. But killed their children, too. It was on the news all yesterday. Can’t believe you didn’t hear it.” The man told him these things as if he’d memorized them. Perhaps that was what he was stewing on. “Same thing out west in New Mexico. Drug dealer crashed this helicopter.” The man paused and took out his phone, swiping furiously on the screen with his finger. “Something like that. Drug dealers. Big crash out in the desert. Police found out last week.” Denniger shook his head. He thought he had heard something about that, but he wasn’t sure. The man shrugged and put the phone back in his pocket. It was better to be a full idiot, he thought. Better to be completely something than nothing right now. “I tell ya…the world don’t have a good future ahead of it.”
“Yes sir,” said Denniger, gripping the plastic arm rests of the lawn chair.
“If that’s the way we let people treat us...” He slurred a bit on the “r”, Denniger thought. There was a red cooler under the pot-bellied man’s lawn chair. Several scrunched cans of Milwaukee’s Best. Denniger quickly looked away. Not wanting the man to think he was staring. He wondered if that’s where the familiar affect in the man’s voice had come from.
“I hadn’t heard of that, but it sounds like a terrible thing," said Denniger, crisply enunciating his words. Hoping this might sober the man up. Open up a caveat of reasons in an otherwise unpredictable scenario. He suddenly thought of his phone. In the pocket of his shorts that he’d let float to the bottom of the water. His brother might be calling. He was supposed to meet him for an early dinner. What time was it anyway? It must be close to five o’clock by now.
"The whole lot of it isn’t Christian. You’re a Christian you said, right?" Denniger nodded his head. Mind still buzzing from the ocean. He hadn’t heard the question. His neck tensed. Jostling words around in his mouth to answer, he couldn’t seem to get them out fast enough.
“Uh, I…I’m sorry I didn’t hear…could you say that again?” The man glared at him. The heel of his right foot nudged one of the cans. Denniger glanced at the cans then turned back.
“I said…Christian. Are you a Christian?”
"Yes, I am."
"Ain’t Christian."
"No, sure isn’t."
"That’s why I asked you that question. I had to see how you’d answer. I would’ve been able to tell if you were lyin’. I just can. You have to. Tell who the animals and who the humans are. You know?” Derringer nodded. “So, what were you fishing for?"
"I don’t know. I’ve only been coming here a couple of years. My brother always took me out before and…well…just fooling around, I guess."
"Well, you sure did. Fuckin boat tests to that…” The sentence drifted away. The pot-bellied man’s head looked to one side as if lost in thought or tired.
"Yes sir." The gun. Denniger glanced nervously at the gun in the pot-bellied man’s hand. "Sir, listen, I’m obviously not a pirate. Could you put the gun away please?" The pot-bellied man let his firearm drift downward slowly until it was at stomach-level. Then, thinking better of it, he held it erect again. Pointed it at Denniger’s head.
"You’re from Hartsville?"
"Yes."
"What do you do there?"
"I run a family business.”
“What?”
“It’s a…feed and hardware store. My father started it-"
"Feed and hardware?"
"Oh, uh…yeah, feed and hardware. Farm clothing, farm supplies, grains for animals. If you knew Hartsville, you’d know that’s pretty good business there because that’s all there is. Hartsville. McBee. Bishopville. Darlington. NASCAR track there.” Denniger paused to see if any of the names appeased the man. If it convinced him that he was like him. Incredibly like him. “That’s all it is," he said, speaking emphatically in order to cordon off any chance of his voice breaking. The pot-bellied man laughed, although Denniger wasn’t sure if he’d laughed at him or something that he’d thought of. Denniger wondered what his face looked like at that moment. The pot-bellied man lowered the gun and shook his head. The grip loosened and it seemed that he might drop it. But he only pointed it at the floor of the boat.
"I’m sorry. You know how it is." He chuckled at his own sentence. The joke, whatever it was, wouldn’t let him go.
"It’s alright, sir. I understand.” The tension in his neck lessened, although he still kept careful attention on the gun.
"Yeah…Herman Waterfield…from Moncks Corner..you know where that’s at?” Denniger nodded.
"Yeah. Moncks Corner. I know it. Yeah, of course. My name’s…I’m Denniger. Denniger Friedman. And I’m not an animal." Herman chuckled. Denniger felt his body coming to rest. The anxiety subsiding. He tried to stand up and failed. Placing his hands on the arm rests, he forced his way upright with a low grunt.
“You’re tame, at the very least,” he said as he stood. Legs wobbling a bit and then stabilizing. Derringer nodded.
“Potty trained,” he said.
“ ‘Potty trained’,” Herman repeated to himself, walking a circle around his chair. It seemed like he was waking himself up. One hand loosely on his hip as he walked. Tucked against his side like it was an old rag. “Denniger? That’s a helluva name." Herman stopped and organized his groin. Carefully, gently tugging in between his legs, while he continued to hold the gun.
"My parents were…well…my father was…creative. But my middle name is James. That’s my grandpa’s name on my mom’s side. Some people call me that.” Herman nodded slowly, looking out at the ocean and seeming to think on the choice. Then, he shrugged and clicked his tongue.
“Jesse James…”
“Ha! Yeah…my dad was into guns, I guess. That might’ve been where it comes from. Have a great great grandfather from Dillion, too. That was his name.” Denniger heard himself speaking and stopped. Worried that he was babbling.
“Denniger it is.”
“That’s a nice gun." Herman grinned and held the gun. In both hands, smoothing it with his free hand. His other hand still clasped the handle. But not desperate or fearful as before. Still, he didn’t want to let it go. He still held to it for some reason.
“Know anything about guns?”
“No sir, although I’ve been wanting to get into it, I guess.” Herman nodded and handed him the gun. Handle first. Denniger held open both hands. Unsure of how casual he should be. Herman laid the gun in the open table of Denniger’s palms, smirking at his overly-gallant manner in receiving the weapon.
“Think you would’ve considering your name.” Denniger laughed.
“Yeah, guess so. Think my father would’ve taught me or…” He stopped again. “…something…”
“Yep. Denniger. That’s a kind of gun name I think.” Herman sounded unsure of this statement. His hands slid over the gun and thought of his watch floating toward the bottom. The inscription there. It might be there for a thousand more years. Someday someone would find it and read that inscription. His eyes stung and he rubbed his face with his free hand. “Been getting into a lot of stuff these days. Got laid off this past week.” Denniger feigned sincere horror. Herman waved off the gesture and Denniger slowly dropped the expression and pretended to study the gun in his hand. In his head he was waiting for Herman to say that they were heading back to the shoreline, to say that he’d called the coast guard to look for his boat. He was waiting for the moment when he walked off Herman’s boat and called his brother to tell him what had happened. Maybe Herman would even let him borrow his phone.
“Out here doing some thinking. What can I do now, you know?” Herman’s voice quietened. He breathed more heavily. “That was twenty years…what’s after work, you know? I never thought of it.” He blinked rapidly. His eyes were glassy, but he looked away from Denniger. “No, never did. Wish I had.”
“What’d you do?” Herman sighed. He coughed and spit. His phlegm made a nearly perfect arc before hitting the water.
“Brass work,” he muttered. Denniger nodded, not pressing any further.
“Well, I’m sorry nonetheless.” Herman nodded briskly. Then, he cleared his throat and pointed to the gun.
“Well, take a look at it. I just got into it. Glock Nine…teen. Far as hand guns go, it ain’t bad. Good place to start. Least that’s what I read.” Denniger looked the gun over. Pretending he was studying it for later. But really, he felt a deep relief that the man no longer wanted to shoot him with it. He handed it back to Herman, who took it with a smile and winked at Denniger.
“Looks good.”
"Yeah, I ain’t that big a gun collector. Maybe like you and fishing. It’s just something I - shit!"
Herman’s boat jerked violently and threw him into a lawn chair shoulder first. He tried to catch himself from falling, squeezing the gun and firing a round in the process. Both he and the chair toppled over.
Dazed, he tried to stand, but the boat rocked so hard that he couldn’t get steady footing and fell again. Holding onto the edge of the boat, he jerked himself to his feet and saw a speedboat floating in the water. A slim, blue speedboat with a trail of debris leading between it and Herman’s boat. He saw a young, shirtless man inside of it climb to his feet. And two other shirtless friends behind him around the same age still sprawled on the floor. Twenty-somethings. Hairless chests. Moustaches and long sideburns. Herman’s whole body felt hot. His face was red and blustery. "Shit! What in the…the fuck are you doin you goddamn…fuckin…assholes!"
The speedboat’s interior had several empty beer cans on the floor. Herman gripped the edge of his boat with a free hand, mumbling as he walked along its perimeter. “Ignorant sons of bitches. Nearly fuckin killed. Probably some goddamn trust fund fuckers from Charleston. Where’s my goddamn phone? My leg feels like shit. I’m calling the coast guard. Denniger, you alright? Fuckin little shits! You hear me! Fuckin! Little! Shits! Goddammit, Denniger…would you…look in the helm…and hand me – OH MY GOD!” Denniger lied motionless on the floor, a small hole in his chest and a growing puddle of blood beneath him.
“Oh my God!” Herman hobbled across the deck toward the body. His arms held limply in front of him. The boat still rocking. Herman lost his balance and fell, slamming into the helm. He crawled to Denniger, grabbing his wrist and shaking it violently. The skin was still warm, but the feel of death was unmistakable. His hands retracted in horror, understanding what his mind was only beginning to comprehend. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod….” he said. He crawled away quickly as the blood puddle licked the edges of his Crocs. He stood and reached for the helm to steady himself, but the boat rocked and he fell again. “Shit!”
Herman now crawled on all fours. He felt sick. A palm brushed one of the cans. He brushed it away. “Fuck!” he screamed. He felt nauseous. The boat’s rocking was unbearable. He got to one knee and vomited a small puddle of clear liquid. He fell backwards, wiping his chin. He glanced at Denniger again, hoping that he would at least be squirming. Moaning.
Nothing.
Debris
Herman pressed his free hand against the floor of the boat and pushed himself to his knees. He felt unsteady, dizzy. His other hand was tensed and he noticed that it was still holding the gun. He pressed the muzzle against the floor hoping that it would orient him. Crawling on his knees, he pulled himself to the side of the boat, hugging it tightly. The three young men appeared to have recovered from the collision and they were uttering apologies and curses. Herman wasn’t sure if the men were talking to him or to each other. He pointed the gun at them and stood up, gripping the side of the boat firmly.
They stopped.
Stopped moving.
Stopped talking.
They stared at Herman. The one who had been at the helm opened his mouth to speak but lost the words. His mouth froze. Herman wasn’t really sure what he was doing, but he noticed that the dizziness retreated when he aimed the weapon. He no longer felt nauseous; rather, things returned as they had before. Calm and strong. Like when he’d spoken with Denniger. Or even before he’d met Denniger.
The one steering noticed the gun first and quickly put his hands up, while calling the attention of the other two. Within seconds, all their hands were straight up. Two large waves made both boats roll in unison, like the water was applauding. The trail of debris, a line of wooden fragments from Herman’s boat, held firm. An umbilical cord connecting the men.
"We’re sorry…" the steerer said, his voice trembling. Herman glanced around his boat as if he was in a dark room trying to find the light switch. Pointing the gun like a second pair of eyes. There was considerable damage to the hull and Herman saw that his boat was taking on water. He felt heat rising up his back and flushing his face
Worst of all was the fact that he’d not been given a choice. Something had gone ahead and decided for him that this would happen.
He breathed in deeply through his nose and sat down in his lawn chair with the gun pointed at the three young men. His eyes drooped. He thought, what kind of people were these? Should he ask? He looked at Denniger again. Herman wondered if the men knew he was sinking. If they did know, were they thinking about helping him? Or, were they thinking about how to get away? How to leave him here? How to forget that they’d ever seen him? His neck felt warm and his body felt heavy.
The steerer of the small boat once again uttered an apology, then looked at the other two dumbfounded. One of them had a phone pressed to his ear.
"Fucking pirates!" Herman yelled and fired his gun until he heard a dry click. After the clip emptied, he held the gun out until the smoke cleared.
He couldn’t see the three men anymore. The speedboat was still there. Floating on the water like a ghost. Herman dropped his arm. The gun slapped his thigh. His grip loosened and the Glock 19 clattered on the floor. So did Herman. Gently laying himself on his back, he closed his eyes. The boat’s rocking slowly dissipated. He was hearing the tongue of the water lapping at the two boats, unsure which one was which.
Things had ended badly but something else coming. Something big. An opening.
He listened to the water. A voice. He thought he heard a voice. A high, soaring cry. A blistering siren song. Herman concentrated on the reality of the sound. Worked toward translating it. Focused on how time and duty would come toward him like the angels did to all those people in the Old Testament. How they lifted humans up out of the earth and showed them where to step next and what to say and how to lead. Indiana Jones. That scene where he crosses that canyon on the invisible bridge. Herman closed his eyes. That whole scene flashed through his head. The siren got louder. Took on shape and form. Things appear. Suddenly and without warning.
Here it comes, he thought.
Yes, here it comes.