Mk.22
08-12-2010, 09:51 AM
SHUCK THEM LIKE ME
The summer before I turned 9, my grandfather told me I needed to learn some responsibility, so he put me to work shucking clams on the dock, in front of our condo on Fire Island.
It was a tedious job, and I hated it.
I had to do it though, he told me, gruff and stern-faced, because I was young and needed direction, because a boy with too much time to wander would most without a doubt be up to no good, and because he liked clams on the half shell, but his hands burned from arthritis, and ordering out for them was a waste of hard earned coin, when there was a bay full of them, so this was the next best thing.
I didn’t think of arguing.
My grandfather was a big man. Tall and valiant looking, thick through the shoulders and arms with hair brown and neatly trimmed, like a new cadet. He was, however, like some long standing veterans seemed: devoid of all things warm and fuzzy; a hard-nosed tough guy; a real brute.
Sitting on the deck, I was looking out to the bay and eating a bagel. The boats tied to long staffs were swaying with the tide, and the small waves were crashing hard onto the shore. That was when I saw him, trudging up the beach, grunting and biting a cigar. He had been wading out in the bay since sun up, digging and raking for clams for me to work on.
He climbed up to the deck in slow motion, holding a bucket and rake and breathing heavily. There were only 4 and I thought he was lazy. After making it to the top, he cracked his neck, and didn’t say a word. He leaned his rake against the windowpane, and dropped the bucket at his feet.
“Go on,” he said, “Get down there to work. Fourth of July’s tomorrow. Whole families gonna be here soon. Gonna need plenty.”
“When are they coming?” I asked.
“Soon,” he repeated, “Ill send your cousin down to help once they get in.”
Kyle
He had been older than me, only by a couple of months, but he felt that in that time he had earned wisdom, and the right to delegate to me chores and jobs he didn’t feel like doing. He thought he was better. I knew he did. I saw it in the way he told me to grab him things, or run to the market and get him something to eat, or drink, or how on holidays he would look at me pitying eyes and talk about his presents and how they were the best. How mine were cool, but his were better and someday I could have his if I still wanted them.
I didn’t really let him bother me though. He was lanky and tall. Whenever I saw him he wore a fanny pack and an orange hat pulled tight around his ears. His voice arched high, and was nasally.
He was as far as I was concerned, a pansy.
The dock was busy: Boys riding their bikes in long circles, careful not to go over the edge, but teetering just close enough that their adrenaline surged and a rush of panic set in. Tourists, walking faces tilted back under the sun, dragging luggage and talking on cell phones. An Asian couple bickering in what sounded like Chinese, and tying chicken wings into their crab traps. And a short man, round and bald, smoking cigarettes and casting his fishing rod off of the dock.
My supplies were limited, and the job was for the most part easy. When the clam was opened, it went on a tray in my cooler. That was that. Simple.
I should have been using a shucking knife: small, round and oval shaped. I wasn’t though. No gloves either. Gloves were for men with soft, pretty boy hands, and a shucking knife wasn’t going to teach me to have as steady an aiming hand as a filet knife would.
So, a filet knife it was.
I set up shop next to the short man, and had been shucking for a while. I would often look up at the bay admiring the serene tide, the boats crossing the water, the glare of the light house, glowing faint under the sun.
The Dock had cleared of travelers and the Asian couple was getting louder. The husband was standing over the wife smacking his palm with the back of his hand. He was small with a thin neck and tiny little calves. Flecks of saliva were flying out of his mouth. She sat silent.
Dragon flies buzzed, and the seeds of summer floated and drifted over the air. He was mumbling to himself, the short man, in a low, gruff tone, and had been yanking his rod up now, hard and fast, reeling and clicking, and slacking the line. I thought he had a fish.
He didn’t.
“It’s a real son of a *****,” he mumbled, taking his cigarette out of his mouth “these damn snags along the bottom. Lose my rig every time.”
I looked over at him, face squint under the sun. I knew what a rig was. I heard my uncle and my grandfather debating about them one night. Little silver jingly things, like Christmas ornaments that the fish was supposed to think was lunch, when it really hid a hook.
“You know,” he added, “last week, I was down here on this dock fishing. The freight ferry came in, and this dumb son of a ***** dropped a washing machine down into the water. Man had just arrived to pick it up too. Watched the whole thing happen. Couldn’t do a goddamn thing. “
I had shucked about 10 clams already, and was making a good pace.
“Say,” he said, “Where’d you get them clams?”
I had heard my grandfather say that phrase almost every day. Son of a ***** this when he getting out of bed, son of a ***** that when he was walking to the bathroom. But I knew it was bad and if he heard me say it he would have gotten mad, so I didn’t even ask him.
Now though, now I could find out. Do some investigative work.
“Sir,” I said to him, and he looked down at me, “What do you mean by son of a *****?”
He paused hesitantly, like a person trying to read a map, but unsure of whether to turn right, or left, or to continue on going straight. Than he inhaled deeply, looked at me with pointy eyes, and told me my mother wouldn’t be very happy with me saying words like that, and I looked back to my clams and agreed.
“But,” he said after a second or two of silence, and I turned my head and looked up at him with wide eyes, “What the hell kid, you’re out here by yourself, in my eyes your one of the fellas.”
He went on to explain to me how to use the word, and others like it, as if he was passionately teaching a class in it. How the key was to use them sparingly, but when you said them, say it with emotion, and feeling.
“They’re so diverse,” he added, “you have to keep them handy. But the key is, to dig deep,” he said, “say them like you mean it.”
“ohhh,” I said, sounding enlightened, but more or less confused.
“practice,” he said, “just try it.”
He waited for me to speak, but I did not. Than he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head and I knew he meant right now.
“Son of a…*****,” I whispered, hesitantly.
He laughed. “Like you mean it,” he added, casting his fishing line.
“Son of a…*****,” I said, a little bit louder.
“Louder. Really dig,” and he made a fist and shook it in front of my face.
“Son of a *****!” I yelled
“Yeah!” he yelled, enthusiastically.
“You nasty **** head son of a *****,” I yelled again.
“Woah, ****head,” he said, “nice one. I felt that. Real nice, kid.”
I went on again, and again, all to a cheer of approval and a wide smile. Than, I started getting creative.
“You dirty little mother f-“
“Hey, Hey,” he said, “sparingly, remember? Don’t overkill it. Nothings ever good too well done. Keep it in your arsenal. Don’t be afraid to oil it once and while, just to keep the nuts and bolts running smooth. But never overcook it. It ruins its flare.”
“Yes sir,” I said.
“And don’t tell your mother. The last thing I need is some-
Before he could finish I said, “no sir,” and he said,
“Names Frank kid,” and extended his hand, “damn glad to meet you.”
The bay pattered against the docks legs. Speedboats whizzed by. My face was browning under the sun, and I was going to go back to the room to get sunscreen when I heard him walking up behind me.
Kyle, my cousin.
I didn’t need to turn back and look to see who it was. I knew he was there. I didn’t want to either. He was saying something about Pokemon cards, and his new bike: a Huffy Mudslinger.
He sat down next to me and said hello, and continued to talk. He asked me if I had seen his new bike. I hadn’t. He wanted to know if I thought that I could go faster than him in a bike race. I told him probably not, but I knew I could. He asked whether or not I thought I could take my bike over jumps like he had in the back of his house better than him. I couldn’t. Had I collected Crazy Bones? I did. So did he. Did I have all of them? No. He did. Did I get straight A’s last quarter of school? No. He did.
“Jesus, kid,” Frank had interrupted, “you sure do ask a lot of
questions,” and we looked at each other smiling.
Finally
“Alright,” Kyle said, standing and putting his hands on his hips, “Say, Let me see that knife.”
He reached over me and grabbed the knife from my hands. I thought I could have easily stopped him, but I refrained. I don’t know why. Part of me wanted him to have it. To see if he could compete with me, to see if he had the steady hand, to see if he could shuck them like me.
He held the knife confusedly, and strangely, looking at the clam crooked like it was a piece of quantum physics. Then he started poking at it.
“Kyle,” I told him, “Just let me do it. I’m almost done.”
“No,” he said, his high voice piercing my ears, “I got it.”
“Kyle, really, just let me do it.”
“You’re a chump,” he told me, “I can do this one hundred times better than-“
He slipped.
And out came the screams. Loud piercing screams, from the gut, from the heart. There was blood. Lots of blood. Blood on my cooler, blood on the dock, blood on Franks chair. Little red droplets, and big fat splotches, trailing Kyle in his every move.
And boy did he move. He sprinted passed me. He sprinted everywhere. Everyone was looking, staring at him, staring at me, staring at frank; children stopped dead in their bike tracks, faces filled with anguish and disgust, mothers looking wide eyed and shocked, the Asian couple, silent staring on with pensive eyes.
Flailing his arms, he ran back down the dock, screaming, and shaking like a rabid animal.
I looked up at Frank, indifferently. He squinted his eyes in Kyle’s direction, thought for a moment, and looked back at me.
“He’ll live,” he told me.
“Yeah,” I said, agreeing, “Well, I told that son of a ***** to let me do it.”
.
The summer before I turned 9, my grandfather told me I needed to learn some responsibility, so he put me to work shucking clams on the dock, in front of our condo on Fire Island.
It was a tedious job, and I hated it.
I had to do it though, he told me, gruff and stern-faced, because I was young and needed direction, because a boy with too much time to wander would most without a doubt be up to no good, and because he liked clams on the half shell, but his hands burned from arthritis, and ordering out for them was a waste of hard earned coin, when there was a bay full of them, so this was the next best thing.
I didn’t think of arguing.
My grandfather was a big man. Tall and valiant looking, thick through the shoulders and arms with hair brown and neatly trimmed, like a new cadet. He was, however, like some long standing veterans seemed: devoid of all things warm and fuzzy; a hard-nosed tough guy; a real brute.
Sitting on the deck, I was looking out to the bay and eating a bagel. The boats tied to long staffs were swaying with the tide, and the small waves were crashing hard onto the shore. That was when I saw him, trudging up the beach, grunting and biting a cigar. He had been wading out in the bay since sun up, digging and raking for clams for me to work on.
He climbed up to the deck in slow motion, holding a bucket and rake and breathing heavily. There were only 4 and I thought he was lazy. After making it to the top, he cracked his neck, and didn’t say a word. He leaned his rake against the windowpane, and dropped the bucket at his feet.
“Go on,” he said, “Get down there to work. Fourth of July’s tomorrow. Whole families gonna be here soon. Gonna need plenty.”
“When are they coming?” I asked.
“Soon,” he repeated, “Ill send your cousin down to help once they get in.”
Kyle
He had been older than me, only by a couple of months, but he felt that in that time he had earned wisdom, and the right to delegate to me chores and jobs he didn’t feel like doing. He thought he was better. I knew he did. I saw it in the way he told me to grab him things, or run to the market and get him something to eat, or drink, or how on holidays he would look at me pitying eyes and talk about his presents and how they were the best. How mine were cool, but his were better and someday I could have his if I still wanted them.
I didn’t really let him bother me though. He was lanky and tall. Whenever I saw him he wore a fanny pack and an orange hat pulled tight around his ears. His voice arched high, and was nasally.
He was as far as I was concerned, a pansy.
The dock was busy: Boys riding their bikes in long circles, careful not to go over the edge, but teetering just close enough that their adrenaline surged and a rush of panic set in. Tourists, walking faces tilted back under the sun, dragging luggage and talking on cell phones. An Asian couple bickering in what sounded like Chinese, and tying chicken wings into their crab traps. And a short man, round and bald, smoking cigarettes and casting his fishing rod off of the dock.
My supplies were limited, and the job was for the most part easy. When the clam was opened, it went on a tray in my cooler. That was that. Simple.
I should have been using a shucking knife: small, round and oval shaped. I wasn’t though. No gloves either. Gloves were for men with soft, pretty boy hands, and a shucking knife wasn’t going to teach me to have as steady an aiming hand as a filet knife would.
So, a filet knife it was.
I set up shop next to the short man, and had been shucking for a while. I would often look up at the bay admiring the serene tide, the boats crossing the water, the glare of the light house, glowing faint under the sun.
The Dock had cleared of travelers and the Asian couple was getting louder. The husband was standing over the wife smacking his palm with the back of his hand. He was small with a thin neck and tiny little calves. Flecks of saliva were flying out of his mouth. She sat silent.
Dragon flies buzzed, and the seeds of summer floated and drifted over the air. He was mumbling to himself, the short man, in a low, gruff tone, and had been yanking his rod up now, hard and fast, reeling and clicking, and slacking the line. I thought he had a fish.
He didn’t.
“It’s a real son of a *****,” he mumbled, taking his cigarette out of his mouth “these damn snags along the bottom. Lose my rig every time.”
I looked over at him, face squint under the sun. I knew what a rig was. I heard my uncle and my grandfather debating about them one night. Little silver jingly things, like Christmas ornaments that the fish was supposed to think was lunch, when it really hid a hook.
“You know,” he added, “last week, I was down here on this dock fishing. The freight ferry came in, and this dumb son of a ***** dropped a washing machine down into the water. Man had just arrived to pick it up too. Watched the whole thing happen. Couldn’t do a goddamn thing. “
I had shucked about 10 clams already, and was making a good pace.
“Say,” he said, “Where’d you get them clams?”
I had heard my grandfather say that phrase almost every day. Son of a ***** this when he getting out of bed, son of a ***** that when he was walking to the bathroom. But I knew it was bad and if he heard me say it he would have gotten mad, so I didn’t even ask him.
Now though, now I could find out. Do some investigative work.
“Sir,” I said to him, and he looked down at me, “What do you mean by son of a *****?”
He paused hesitantly, like a person trying to read a map, but unsure of whether to turn right, or left, or to continue on going straight. Than he inhaled deeply, looked at me with pointy eyes, and told me my mother wouldn’t be very happy with me saying words like that, and I looked back to my clams and agreed.
“But,” he said after a second or two of silence, and I turned my head and looked up at him with wide eyes, “What the hell kid, you’re out here by yourself, in my eyes your one of the fellas.”
He went on to explain to me how to use the word, and others like it, as if he was passionately teaching a class in it. How the key was to use them sparingly, but when you said them, say it with emotion, and feeling.
“They’re so diverse,” he added, “you have to keep them handy. But the key is, to dig deep,” he said, “say them like you mean it.”
“ohhh,” I said, sounding enlightened, but more or less confused.
“practice,” he said, “just try it.”
He waited for me to speak, but I did not. Than he raised his eyebrows and tilted his head and I knew he meant right now.
“Son of a…*****,” I whispered, hesitantly.
He laughed. “Like you mean it,” he added, casting his fishing line.
“Son of a…*****,” I said, a little bit louder.
“Louder. Really dig,” and he made a fist and shook it in front of my face.
“Son of a *****!” I yelled
“Yeah!” he yelled, enthusiastically.
“You nasty **** head son of a *****,” I yelled again.
“Woah, ****head,” he said, “nice one. I felt that. Real nice, kid.”
I went on again, and again, all to a cheer of approval and a wide smile. Than, I started getting creative.
“You dirty little mother f-“
“Hey, Hey,” he said, “sparingly, remember? Don’t overkill it. Nothings ever good too well done. Keep it in your arsenal. Don’t be afraid to oil it once and while, just to keep the nuts and bolts running smooth. But never overcook it. It ruins its flare.”
“Yes sir,” I said.
“And don’t tell your mother. The last thing I need is some-
Before he could finish I said, “no sir,” and he said,
“Names Frank kid,” and extended his hand, “damn glad to meet you.”
The bay pattered against the docks legs. Speedboats whizzed by. My face was browning under the sun, and I was going to go back to the room to get sunscreen when I heard him walking up behind me.
Kyle, my cousin.
I didn’t need to turn back and look to see who it was. I knew he was there. I didn’t want to either. He was saying something about Pokemon cards, and his new bike: a Huffy Mudslinger.
He sat down next to me and said hello, and continued to talk. He asked me if I had seen his new bike. I hadn’t. He wanted to know if I thought that I could go faster than him in a bike race. I told him probably not, but I knew I could. He asked whether or not I thought I could take my bike over jumps like he had in the back of his house better than him. I couldn’t. Had I collected Crazy Bones? I did. So did he. Did I have all of them? No. He did. Did I get straight A’s last quarter of school? No. He did.
“Jesus, kid,” Frank had interrupted, “you sure do ask a lot of
questions,” and we looked at each other smiling.
Finally
“Alright,” Kyle said, standing and putting his hands on his hips, “Say, Let me see that knife.”
He reached over me and grabbed the knife from my hands. I thought I could have easily stopped him, but I refrained. I don’t know why. Part of me wanted him to have it. To see if he could compete with me, to see if he had the steady hand, to see if he could shuck them like me.
He held the knife confusedly, and strangely, looking at the clam crooked like it was a piece of quantum physics. Then he started poking at it.
“Kyle,” I told him, “Just let me do it. I’m almost done.”
“No,” he said, his high voice piercing my ears, “I got it.”
“Kyle, really, just let me do it.”
“You’re a chump,” he told me, “I can do this one hundred times better than-“
He slipped.
And out came the screams. Loud piercing screams, from the gut, from the heart. There was blood. Lots of blood. Blood on my cooler, blood on the dock, blood on Franks chair. Little red droplets, and big fat splotches, trailing Kyle in his every move.
And boy did he move. He sprinted passed me. He sprinted everywhere. Everyone was looking, staring at him, staring at me, staring at frank; children stopped dead in their bike tracks, faces filled with anguish and disgust, mothers looking wide eyed and shocked, the Asian couple, silent staring on with pensive eyes.
Flailing his arms, he ran back down the dock, screaming, and shaking like a rabid animal.
I looked up at Frank, indifferently. He squinted his eyes in Kyle’s direction, thought for a moment, and looked back at me.
“He’ll live,” he told me.
“Yeah,” I said, agreeing, “Well, I told that son of a ***** to let me do it.”
.